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cc  l\   /  >,«*  ^  <: 


THE  WILDERNESS 


a  Comers  tn  Xlbree  Bct5 


BY 


H.  V.  ESMOND 


Copyright,  1901,  by  T.  H.  French 


New  York 
SAMUEL  FRENCH 

PUBLISHEH 

26  WEST  22D  STREET 


London 
SAMUEL  FRENCH,  LTD. 

PUBLISHERS 

89  STRAND 


CHARACTERS. 


Produced  at  the  St.  James's  Theatre,  London, 
11th  April,  1901. 


Sir  Harry  Milanor Mr.  George  Alexander. 

Lady  Milanor,  Ills  mother Miss  Le  Thiere. 

Ethel  Glyndon,  his  cousin.   Miss  Dora  Barton. 

Joseph  Trevor,  Ids  uncle Mr.  H.  H.  Vincent. 

The  Hon.  Jack  Kennerly Mr.W.  Grahame  Browne. 

Lady  Honoria  Pawson Mrs.  Edward  Saker. 

Mr.  Gilbert  Pawson,  her  son. . .  Mr.  Lennox  Pawle. 

Mrs.  Buckley  Weston Miss  M.  Talbot. 

Mabel,  her  daughter Miss  Eva  Moore. 

Grinstead    Worburn,    a     rich 

breiver Mr.  Edward  Arthur, 

Hugh  Graeme Mr.  C.  Aubrey  Smith. 

Edith  Cadogan Miss  Julie  0pp. 

Harold     j  3Irs.  Buckley  West-  )  Master  Vyvian  Thomas. 
Marjorie  \      07i's  ticins.  )  Jliss  Phyllis  Dare. 

Miss  Anstruther,  EtheVs  aunt. .  Miss  Henrietta  Cowen. 


ACT  I.— THE  NIGHT. 
The  Scene  of  Act  I.  is  a  fashionable  afternoon  tea-room 

in  Bond  Street. 

ACT  II.— THE  DARK  HOUR  BEFORE  THE  DAWN. 
The  Scene  of  Act  II.  is  a  lonely  spot  in  the  Borcambe 

woods. 

ACT  III.— THE  DAY. 

The  Scene  of  Act  III.  is  the  drawing-room  in  Sir  Harry 

^Milanor's  house,  Chesterfield  Street,  May  fair, 


THE  WILDERNESS, 


ACT  I. 

THE  NIGHT. 


rScENE.^-Fas/jtona&Ze  tea-rooms  in  Bond  Street.  A  large 
room  at  hack  opening  on  to  balcony,  overlooking  the 
street.  Near  the  centre  of  the  stage  an  arch,  and  the 
lower  tea-room,  in  the  front.  Tea-tables  everywhere.  A 
band  somewhere  at  the  back  jJlaying  at  intervals  during 
the  Act.  The  maids  are  smart,  lady-like  girls.  At  the 
table  to  the  right,  in  the  lower  room  nearest  the  audience, 
are  seated  Lady  Honoria  Pawson  and  her  son  Gilbert 
Pawson.  hxDY  lioyoRix  is  a  funereal  remnant  of  pa.^t 
splendor.  Her  son  Gilbert  is  about  forty-five  and  has 
lived  too  well ;  he  is  short,  fat  and  biliou^i.  Ttro  viaids 
are  in  the  act  of  .netting  tea  and  mnfflns  before  them  iclien 

'  the  curtain  rises.  Many  of  the  tables  are  empty,  a  few 
are  occupied;  during  the  Act  all  the  tcd^lesfdl,  and  occa- 
sionally fJte  chatter  is  so  general  that  pauses  occur  in  the 
principal  dialogue. 

Lady  H.  (ferreting  a  handkerchief  out  of  a  smcdl  bag  at 
her  large  icaisl)  That  was  Sir  Charles  at  the  corner 
table. 

Mr.  Gilbert,  {puffihj  eating)  No,  it  wasn't ;  it  was 
AVorburn  the  brewer. 

Lady  H.  {powdering  her  nose,  then  pulling  her  veil  over 
it)     It  wasn't ;  it  was  Sir  Charles. 

Mr.  Gilbert.  It  was  Worburn.  I  lunched  with  liini 
to-day. 

Lady  H.  (returning  her  handkerchief  to  her  bag  and 
shutting  it  icith  a  snap)  It  was  Sir  Charles.  I  bowed  to 
him. 

Mr.  Gilbert.  Worburn  don'f-  mind,  he's  accustomed  to 
it. 

Lady  H.  I  never  forget  a  face.  I've  a  royal  memory. 
Gilbert,  you're  getting  stouter. 

Mr.  Gilbert,  (in  a  huff)  Whenever  I  disagree  with 
you,  you  say  I  am  stouter. 

o 


7571 23 


4  THE  WILDERNESS. 

Lady  H.  Everything  that  disagrees  with  one  makes 
one  stouter. 

Mr.  Gilbert,  (sadly  contemplaiing  his  mvffin)  Every- 
thing disagrees  with  nie — but  one  must  eat.  Everybody 
does.  (Grinstead  WoRBURN  comes  down  from  the  upper 
room,  evident Iji  looking  for  some  one.  He  is  a  man  of  about 
Jiftij,  very  cold  and  dignified  in  Ins  manner — his  contume 
rather  suggests  the  stock  period — he  is  more  aristocratic  in 
his  vianner  and  appearance  than  the  oldest  duke  in  the 
jJeerage.  Mr.  Gilbert  rises  effusively)  My  dear  Wor- 
burn,  we  meet  again — delightful  lunch  you  gave  us.  May 
I  present  you  to  my  mother  ?     [he  does  so) 

WoRBURN.  (gravely)  My  dear  Lady  Pawson.  I'm  so 
glad,  I  liad  lieard  you  were  indisposed — east  wind,  purely 
east  wind^it  affects  even  me. 

Lady  H.  I  have  heard  so  much  of  you  from  Gilbert 
lately,  that  I  positively  recognized  you  as  I  came  in. 
(her  son  is  a  little  staggered  by  Iter  tact  and  untridhful- 
ness) 

AVoRBURN.  (bozos  slightly — then  moves  a  little  apologeti- 
cally) I  liave  a  few  young  people  to  entertain  this  after- 
noon ;  but.  like  most  young  people.  I  fear  they  have  no 
notion  of  punctuality.  I  am  now  wondering  whether  by 
any  chance  they  are  waiting  for  me  in  tlie  rooms  below. 

Lady  H.  My  dear  Mr.  Woiburn,  find  them  by  all 
means  ;  don't  let  us  detain  you. 

Worburx.  (gravely)  Thank  you,  I  hope  to  see  you  on 
my  return,     (lie  bows,  and  goes  uj]) 

Lady  H.     A  brewer !    Surely  a  Queen's  Counsel  ? 

Mr.  Gilbert,  (sadly)  A  brewer,  and  a  most  immoral 
one,  owns  most  of  the  shares  in  a  certain  theatre  and — 
gets  liis  money's  worth. 

Lady  H.  Why  don't  you  tell  me  more  about  these 
people  ? 

Mr.  Gilbert.  It's  so  dull  to  talk  about  other  people 
when  one's  present  oneself  ;  besides,  one  couldn't  discuss 
Worburn  thoroughly  with  one's  mother,  he  really  is  so 
cold-blooded. 

Lady  H.    Shocking ! 

Mr.  Gilbert.  It's  all  right,  he's  decided  to  marry  and 
settle  down  at  last,  (he  turns  to  a  j^ctssing  maid)  I  have 
no  spoon. 

Maid.     I  beg  your  pardon,  sir.     {she  gives  him  one) 

Lady  H.  {eating  her  viuffln)  Who's  he  going  to 
marry  ? 

Mr.  Gilbert.  Oh,  anybody!  I  don't  thinK  he's  made 
up  his  mind.  He's  making  'em  all  show  tlieir  paces — that's 
one  advantage  in  being  a  millionaire,  they're  all  ready  to 
doit,  (he  passes  his  mother  the  muffins)  Won't  you? 
(Mabel  Buckley  Weston  is  seen  in  the  %ipper  room ;  she 


THE  WILDERNESS.  5 

Jiurries  doimi  to  the  left  table  in  the  loicer  room  and 
seats  herself  behind  it.  She  is  an  exceedingly  beautiful  girl 
about  eighteen,  and  appears  happily  excited  and  flushed. 
The  Hon.  Jack  Kennerly  joins  Iter  and  sits  left  of  Iter, 
first  helping  her  to  remove  her  cloak.  He  is  a  smart  young 
■man  about  town,  of  aboxit  five-and-twenty) 

Jack.     It's  all  right,  they  didn't  see  us  ! 

Mabel.  Tiiank  the  lates,  old  Worbuin's  as  blind  as  a 
bat.     Oh,  Jack,  what  a  lipping  day  we  have  had  ! 

Jack.  We've  been  jolly  lucky  too,  considering  we 
haven't  been  spotted  once. 

Mabel,  {witlt  a  long  drawn  breath)  Oli.  if  one  could 
only  go  on  doing  what  one  shouldn't  all  one's  life,  wouldn't 
it   be  exciting ! 

Jack,     {doubtfully)     Um'm  ! 

Mabel.  Where  are  the  muffins?  OIi,  Jack,  doesn't  it 
run  to  muffins  ? 

Jack,     (looking    at  disJi)      Aren't    the}- — how  silly  of 

'em.     I  ordered  'em.     (the  muffins  are  brought)     Oh.  here 

they  are.     Cut  into  'em,  Mab.     If  we  don't  clear  out  of  tliis 

before   the   afternoon   gang   arrives     we're    bound   to   be 

spotted.     {Mabel,  pours  out  the  tea) 

Mabel.  As  soon  as  I'm  fortified  by  tea,  I  shall  be  ready 
to  face  even  mamma. 

Jack.     Thanks,  I  shan't. 

Mabel.  (p?/is  doicn  her  cup  and  gives  a.  long  sigh)  Oh, 
Jack,  do  you  realize  that  this  is  absolutely  the  last  tiine  we 
■can  do  this  sort  of  thing? 

Jack.     Oh,  one  never  knows. 

Mabel,  /know.  My  future  is  looming  very  obviously 
just  no%v.  and  tete-a-tete  teas  with  a  detrimental  must 
take  a  back  seat.  Oh.  Jack,  I'm  so  glad  you're  a  detrimen- 
tal, and  needn't  be  taken  seriously ;  you're  really  just  as 
useful  as  a  brother  and  much  more  exciting. 

Jack,  {laughs  a  little)  I'm  glad,  {then  gloomily) 
I  say,  do  you  really  wajit  to  go  to  the  Aquarium  ?  (Mabel 
nods  her  head  vehemently ,  her  mouth  being  full  of  muffin) 
But  it's  a  deadly  place  in  the  afternoon. 

Mabel.  The  deadlier  tlie  better ;  it's  our  last  day  of 
freedom,  so  let's  finish  it  off  feeling  fearfully  tomb}-. 

Jack.     Ranelagh's  more  fun. 

Mabel.  Jack,  don't  be  sill)-.  Harry's  sure  to  be  there. 
A  nice  thing  for  me  if  he  saw  me  alone  with  you.  All 
mamma's  castles  in  tiie  air  would  topple  on  top  of  lier. 

Jack.  It's  all  very  well  to  prpteiid  that  it's  onlj^  your 
mother  who  builds  castles  upon  Sir  Harry.  You  do  a  bit 
of  building  on  your  own. 

Mabel,  {making  a  little  grimace)  I  know  I  do.  I've 
:got  to  marry  him  for  heaps  of  reasons.  Firstly,  he's  the 
lichest  man  in  the  market  just    now;    secondly — well. 


Q  THE  WILDERNESS. 

that's  all ;  secondly  is  the  same  as  firstly,  and  so's  thirdly. 

Jack.     You  mercenary  little  devil ! 

Mabel.  Ami?  (a  pause — then  rather  sadly)  No,  I'm 
not  really  !  It's  only  a  part  of  wliat  mamma  calls  the 
great  social  scheme.  We're  all  parts  of  a  great  social 
scheme.  Jack — you're  a  part,  I'm  a  part.  Fat  old  Wor- 
burn's  a  part — these  girls  that  wait  on  us  are  a  part,  only  I 
suppose  they  failed  in  their  parts,  so  that's  why  they  have 
to  wait  on  the  otiier  parts,  {then  she  tosses  her  head  as  if 
to  shake  off  unpleasant  thoughts— and  tnrns  in  her  chair, 
looking  round  the  room)  I  wish  tiiey'd  play  the  "Belle 
of  New  York."  {she  turns  back  and  meets  Jack's  glance. 
So  they  remain  for  an  instant)  Jack,  don't  look  at  me  as 
if  5'ou  didn't  know  me. 

Jack,     {gravely)     I  wonder,  do  I? 

Mabel.     Don't  you  ? 

Jack.     You'i'e  ready  to  marry  a  man  for  his  monej'  ? 

Mabel.  Of  course  I  am.  {she  laughs)  What  else  is 
there  for  a  girl  to  do  if  she  doesn't  ?  Spend  her  days  carry- 
ing muffins  to  the  old  woman  in  that  corner?  No,  thank 
you.  Jack,  I've  been  well  brought  up,  so  I  know  now  tliat 
it's  a  girl's  first  duty  to  marry  money,  money  with  position 
if  possible,  but  money  anyhow. 

Jack.     It's  beastly  I 

Mabel.     Is  it— how  ? 

Jack.     Oh,  I  can't  explain. 

Mabel.  Well,  anyhow,  whatever  it  is — it's  what's- 
drummed  into  us  from  the  word  go.  It's  all  part  of  the 
great  social  sclieme.  It's  our  one  outlook.  No,  tliere  are 
others  :  be  a  governess — I  don't  want  to.  Go  on  the  stage 
— I'm  mucli  too  good  an  actress  to  have  a  chance  on  tlie 
stage.  No,  Jack,  if  you  were  a  girl  you'd  be  told  it  from 
morning  till  night,  marry  well.  Mind  you  marry  well,  it's, 
everything  ;  and  so  you  see,  rightly  or  wrongly,  we  begin 
to  believe  it  at  last,  and  we  jump  at  £10,000  a  year,  {theit 
she  leans  a  little  towards  him,  half  closing  her  eyes  in  a 
smile)  But  tlie  scheme  has  its  compensations,  it  makes  ua 
enjoy  a  day  like  to-day,  doesn't  it,  Jack? 

Jack.     I  s'pose  so. 

Mabel.  Dear  old  Jack,  may  I  have  nnother  muffin? 
There's  iiot  enougli  butter  on  this,  {more  muffins,  trJiich 
she  re(dly  doesn't  want,  are  set  beforeher — then  she  becomes 
a  trifle  pensive)  Ami  when  I'm  married  to  Sir  Harry- 
you'U  come  and  stay  with  us  often,  won't  you,  and  cheer- 
me  up? 

Jack.     Do  you  think  you'll  want  cheering  up  ? 

Mabel.  Oli,  I  expect  so.  Most  of  the  girls  who  marrjr 
well  seem  to  be  able  to  do  with  a  lot  of  cheering  up. 

Jack.     Is  that  part  of  the  scheme  too  ? 

MABiiL.     I  suppose  so. 


THE  WILDERNESS.  7 

Jack.     I'm  rather  glad  I'm  not  a  girl. 

Mabel.  So  am  I,  Jack.  (tJiere's  a  2MUse — Jie  fiddles  with 
his  cup,  and  her  eyes  rove  round  the  room) 

Jack,  {siuldenlij)  In  this  scheme,  doesn't  it  strike  you 
that  something  lias  been  left  out  ? 

Mabel.     What  ? 

Jack.  Well,  there's  a  curious,  somewhat  old-fashioned 
emotion  that  crops  up  sometimes  even  in  modern  life. 

Mabel.     Whafs  that  ? 

Jack.     Love. 

Mabel,  (bui'sts  into  a  little  Imtgh  of  surprise)  Of 
course,  we've  left  tliat  out  !  How  could  one  have  a  work- 
able scheme  witli  love  in  it?  No  scheme  would  hold  to- 
gether for  a  minute. 

Jack.     I  see — so  you  ignore  it. 

MABEli.  One  can't  afford  to  waste  one's  time  on  love 
nowadays.  Life's  mucli  too  serious  a  problem.  Love's  all 
very  well  when  one's  quite  young,  but  one  can't  let  it 
stand  in  tlie  way  of  tangible  things,  can  one? 

Jack.     No,  I  sujipose  not. 

Mabel.  I  tliink,  personall}',  that  love  would  die  out 
altogether  if  it  weren't  for  the  prolificosity  of  the  modern 
novelist. 

Jack,  {sarcasticcdhj)  You  know  more  about  it  than  I 
do,  j'ou're  eigliteeii. 

Mabel,  (quite  lighfli/ — putting  on  her  gloves)  No,  I  don't 
really  know  anytliing  about  it — it'snotone  of  my  subjects. 
I've  always  let  tliat  sort  of  tiling  slide. 

Jack.  Some  day  it  may  enter  into  your  head  to  take 
it  up. 

Mabel.  Well,  when  I  do,  Jack,  you  .shall  teach  me  the 
rudiments. 

Jack.  That's  a  bargain.  You  won't  find  it  half  so  dull 
a  thing  as  j'ou  imagine. 

Mabel.  Shan't  I  ?  Perhai^s  not.  But  I'm  not  going  to 
think  about  it  now. 

Jack.  I  wonder  what  Milanor's  views  on  the  subject  of 
love  are. 

Mabel.  Oh!  I  hope  to  goodness  he  hasn't  got  any.  I — 
I'm  afraid  I  shovild  laugh  if  he  began  to  get  romantic,  and 
that  would  be  awful,  wouldn't  it  ? 

Jack.     You'd  never  be  my  Lady  Milanor  then.    - 

Mabel.  Oh,  never,  and  I'd  never  be  mistress  of  that 
lovely  place  in  Derl)yshire  with  tliat  divine  trout  stream. 

Jack.  Or  tlie  litile  house  in  Chesterfield  Street  with 
the  green  shutters. 

Mabel.  I've  quite  made  up  mj-  mind  to  do  away  with 
those  sliutters.  Oh,  you  will  dine  with  us  often  and  often, 
won't  you.  Jack? 

Jack.     Perhaps  Milanor  won't  approve. 


S  THE  WILDERNESS. 

Mabel.  Oh,  lie'll  have  to — because  a  girl  marries  it 
doesn't  mean  that  she  gives  up  her  old  friends. 

Jack.  It'll  be  an  awful  sell  for  you,  Mab,  if  he  doesn't 
come  up  to  tlie  scratch. 

Mabel.  Awful.  Oh,  but  lie  will.  It's  not  really  diffi- 
cult to  convince  a  man  he's  in  love  with  you,  it  only  re- 
quires plenty  of  concentration.  Watch  his  moods  and  fall 
in  with  them, — if  lie's  sentimental,  sigh  with  him  ;  if  he's 
cheerful,  keep  him  in  the  sunshine.  Jack,  you  should 
Avatch  me  at  work — it's  really  very  instructive,  and  then, 
of  course,  mamma  is  very  useful.  I'jn  not  fearfully  fond 
of  mamma,  but  I  must  say  she's  a  good  manager.  What 
do  j^ou  think  she's  done  ? 

Jack.     What  ? 

Mabel.  She's  rented  that  cottage  under  the  hill — you 
know,  just  on  the  corner  of  his  moor — for  three  months, 
so  3'ou  see  I  shouldn't  be  surjirised  if  he  and  I  didn't  fre- 
quently run  up  against  each  other  this  summer. 

Jack.    Ah  ! 

Mabel.  He's  awfully  fond  of  rambling  about  the  coun- 
try alone — and — and  I  feel  a  tendency  towards  that  sort  of 
thing  myself. 

Jack.  Well,  of  course  that  does  help  to  clear  the  ground 
a  bit,  doesn't  it  ? 

Mabel.     Decidedlj-. 

AVORBURN  reapioears  in  the  upper  room  with  a  j^arty  of 
ladies,  among  tliem  Ethel  Glyndon,  a  sicect-Iooking  girl 
of  about  seventeen,  and  her  aunt.  Miss  Anstruther,  a 
plump,  cheery  little  u-oman  of  forty. 

WoRBURN.  {motioning  them  all  to  their  seats  with  grave 
dignity)    I  secured  this  table — it — it  is  near  the  band. 

Miss  Anstruther.    Sweet  of  you  ! 

WoRBURN.  {to  Ethel)  MissGlyndon,  will  you  be  com- 
fortable ? 

Ethel.  I'm  always  comfortable  anywhere,  {and  they 
all  sit  dozen,  out  of  sight  of  the  audience) 

Mr.  Gilbert,  {to  his  mother)  I  have  not  experienced 
that  curious  sense  of  fulness  nearly  so  acutely  to-day. 

Lady  H.  The  muffins  were  better  done.  I  ordered 
the  carriage  to  come,  it  should  be  here.  Are  you  ready  to 
move  ? 

Mr.  Gilbert,  I  would  prefer  to  sit  q"ite  still  for  fifteen 
minutes. 

Lady  H,  Perhaps  it  would  be  wiser,  {they  relapse  into 
inertia) 

Jack.     I  wish  you'd  fixed  on  anybody  but  ]\Iilanor. 

IMabel.     Why  ? 

Jack.  I  don't  know.  He's  sucli  an  odd  sort  of  chap — 
always  doing  such  rum  things.    He's  just  been  and  en- 


THE  WILDERNESS.  9 

■dowod  a  nospital  for  children  ;  that  strikes  me  as  rather 
snobbish, 

Mabel.     I  don't  see  that. 

Jack.  Oh,  because  a  man's  rich  he  needn't  shove  it 
down  your  throat  like  that. 

Mabel,,  {lightly)  I  think  it's  very  nice  of  him,  it's 
better  than  throwing  away  your  money  on  a  horse. 

Jack.  Oh,  I  don't  know.  One's  usual,  the  other  isn't. 
Everything  that  attracts  attention  is  bound  to  be  bad  form. 
Anyho-w — he's  putting  on  flesh. 

Mabel.  I  shall  have  to  check  that  if  possible.  I'm 
afraid  you'll  have  to  make  the  best  of  it.  Jack.  Mamma 
and  I  have  agreed  to  him,  so  it's  no  good  going  back. 
Mamma  tried  to  persuade  me  to  consider  old  Worburn— 
but  Worburn  !  {she  griviaces)— there  must  be  limits  even 
to  a  social  scheme. 

Edith  Cadogan  comes  through  the  rooms,  looking  about 
her,  folloioed  by  an  aimless  iidddle-uged  lady.  She  sees 
Mabel  and  comes  down. 

Edith.  Hullo !  Mabel— and  Jack— and  no  chaperon  ! 
What's  the  meaning  of  this  ? 

]\Iabel.     Jack  and  I  are  out  on  the  razzle. 

Edith.  T'J.  better  have  tea  with  you  for  propriety's 
sake. 

Jack.  I  don't  think  it  matters  in  our  case— we're  too 
young. 

Mabel.    Besides,  we're  cousins. 

Edith.     Have  you  seen  Sir  Harry  ? 

Mabel.     He's  at  Ranelagh. 

Edith.  He  isn't — at  least  his  mother  told  me  she  was 
going  to  meet  him  here  at  four.     Mab,  you  look  worried. 

Mabel.    What  at"? 

Edith.     I  don't  know  if  you  don't. 

Mabel.     I'm  not  worried — thank  you. 

Edith.     Mab,  will  you  tell  me  the  truth  if  I  ask  you  ? 

Mabel.     It  depends. 

Edith.     Are  you  to  be  congratidated  ? 

Mabel.  No,  I'm  not— there's  a  chance  for  everybody, 
you  see.     {laughs  and.  shrugs  her  shoulders) 

Edith.  There's  none  for  me — we're  much  too  friendly — 
you  see,  he's  my  trustee,  {she  turns  avd  looks  round  the 
rooms)  I  hate  this  band,  don't  you?  I — there's  Mr. 
■Graeme.  We're  tea-ing  with  him  this  afternoon — pity  me  ! 
And  Julia  is  with  me,  and  she  positively  hasn't  an  idea 
outside  window-boxes.  But  I  say,  before  I  go — I  do 
think  you  two  are  silly  to  come  here  like  this.  Of  course, 
I  know  it  means  nothing,  but— but  people  will  talk. 
There's  Julia,  for  instance.     Oil,  Mab,  what  is  the  good  of 


10  THE  WILDERNESS. 

all  the  eloquence  I  wasted  on  you  when  you  name  to  Miss- 
Grand's  in  Cliill  Street !     Good-bye.     (site  saunters  ^ip) 

Jack.     Who's  Miss  Grand? 

Mabel.  I  went  to  school  there,  with  her — she's  ages 
older  than  I  am,  and  was  always  telling  me  things.  I  hate- 
her — rather.  She  wanted  to  marry  Sir  Harry,  and  it  didn't 
come  otf.     So  I  suppose  she  hates  me — rather. 

Jack.     Because  it  will  come  off  ? 

Mabel.  Oh,  I  daresay— don't  talk  about  it.  It  seems 
different  when  slie's  about.  She  makes  me  think  of  what 
things  are  really,  and  that  makes  one  feel  beastly.  Don't 
let's  think  at  all,  Jack.  It's  the  only  way  to  be  linppy.  I 
say,  this  place  is  beginning  to  fill  up.  Hadn't  we  better 
make  a  move  ?     Shall  I  pay,  or  have  you  got  enough  ? 

Jack.     Oh,  I  daresay  I  can  manage  it. 

Mabel,  {suddenly  trlieeling  round)  Heavens,  Jack  I 
Is  this  the  twenty-fourth  ? 

Jack.     Yes. 

Mabel.  Oli,  and  I've  promised  to  fetch  the  twins  and 
bring  them  here  to  meet  mamma  at  half-past  four. 

Jack.     That'll  spoil  our  afternoon. 

Mabel.  No  it  won't.  I'll  bring  them  here,  and  I  can 
easily  make  an  excuse  to  mother  and  meet  you  anj'where^ 
I've  got  till  seven,  then  I  must  get  back  to  dress.  Sir 
Harry  is  dining  with  us  to-night,  and 

Jack.     And  you  fancy 

Mabel.     Never  mind  what  I  fancy.     What  time  is  it? 

Jack.     Five  past  four. 

Mabel.  I  must  go  for  them  in  ten  minutes.  Where 
shall  we  meet  afterwards? 

Jack.     You  wanted  to  go  to  the  Aquarium. 

Mabel.  Nobody  ever  goes  there,  that's  why.  Well,  any- 
how     (she  stops  suddenlj/,  looking  into  the  other  room , 

then  turns  and  faces  him  with  a  gasp)    Jack,  the  worst  has- 
happened.     Edith  was  right,  he's  here. 

Jack.     Who? 

Mabel.  Harry  !  (they  stare  at  each  other  for  an  instant, 
then  her  jyresence  of  mind  retiirns)  My  gracious,  I  can't  be- 
found  alone  with  you;  we  mnst  have  a  chajjeron.  Jack, 
come  and  join  tliose  two  old  frumps. 

Jack,     (aghast)     But  I  don't  know  'em. 

Mabel,  (vehemently)  Neither  do  I.  AYhat  matter? 
Come  and  join  tliem.  (she  stops  one  of  the  waiting  maids 
who  is  passing  irith  tea)     What's  tliat  lady's  name  ? 

I\Iaid.  That's  old  Lady  Pawson.  miss,  and  her  son,  Mr. 
Gilliei't  Pawson.  (Mabel  sweeps  doini  towai-ds  Lady 
Pawsox's  table,  zcith  an  outstretched  hand  and  a  siccet 
smile) 

Mabel.  I  really  can't  go  without  saying  how-do-you-do. 
Lady  Pav/son.     We  haven't  met  since  that  delightful  after- 


THE  WILDERNESS.  H 

■noon .  (67(6  turns  to  Mr.  Gilbert  and  shakes  hands  with  him 
wannli/)  How  do  you  do?  I  hopn  your  gout  is  l)etter. 
{the  old  lady  avd  her  sen  are  deeply  agitated.  Mabel 
smiles  at  Mr.  Gilbert) 

Mabel.     I'm  afraid  j'our  motlier  doesn't  remember  me. 

Lady  H.  (not  knowing  Jier  i)L  tJie  leant)  Perfectly,  my 
dear.     How  do  you  do  ? 

Mr.  Gilbert,  (feebly)  My  mother  never  forgets  a 
face.     She  has  a  royal  memory. 

Mabel,  (sitting'doicn  at  their  table  and  making  herself 
quite  eomfortable)  I'm  waiting  for  mamma.  But  you 
know  how  dreailfully  nnpunctual  she  always  is.  Oli, 
didn't  you  have  any  inuffins?  You  really  ought  to  make 
an  effort  in  the  direction  of  mufhns. 

Lady  H.     Gilbert's  digestion  is  very  fluctuating. 

Mabel,  {icith  an  affectation  of  great  concern)  Oh,  don't 
say  you've  got  to  be  careful  still  V  I  hoped  that  trouble 
hail  passed  long  ago.  Why,  you've  suffered  from  that 
ever  since 

Mr.  Gilbert.     Last  April  twelve  months. 

Mabel.  I  remember  mamma  telling  us  about  it  at  the 
time.  (Jack  is  hovering  about  the  table  much  embarrassed. 
Mabel  smiles  in  surjjrise  at  Lady  Pawson)  Don't  you 
know  Mr.  Kennerly?  Jack,  I'm  disappointed  in  you.  I 
thought  you  knew  everybody  worth  knowing.  Lady  Paw- 
son,  do  let  me  introduce  Mr,  Jack  Kennerly  —  Lady 
Pawson,  Mr.  Kennerly. 

Jack,  (sitting down  beside  Gilbert  Pawsox)  Awfully 
good  place  to  meal  in,  this,  don't  you  find  ?  Jolly  secluded, 
and  all  that,  and  yet  you're  always  running  up  against 
people  vou  know. 

]\Ir.  Gilbert.  j\Iy  mother  and  I  have  not  run  up  against 
anybody  for I\iother,  you  desire 

Lady  H.  (making  a  brilliant  effort  to  recover  herseif 
and  remember  somebody — snajis  out  at  Mabel)  How's  your 
aunt  ? 

Mabel,     {ingenuously)     Which  aunt? 

Lady  H.  (after  a  pause,  Lady  Pawson  retrieves  herself} 
Your  dear  aunt. 

Mabel,  (with  a  sigh)  She's  still  on  the  wane,  we 
fear. 

Lady  H.  Ah.  she  was  always  delicate  as  a  girl,  (a 
long  and  melancholy  silence  falls  u-hich  Mabel  thoroughly 
enjoys,  then  say.-;,  with  another  deep  sigh) 

Mabel.  Yes,  and  she  never  really  got  over  that  afTair — 
you  know. 

Mr.  Gilbert,     (getting  interested)     Dear  me. 

Mabel,  (to  ]\Ir.  Gilbert)  I  always  imagine  there  was- 
sometliing  more  in  that  than  met  the  eye,  don't  you  V 

Mr.  Gilbert.    Oh,  I  really 


:12  TKE  WILDERNESS. 

Mabel.  You  wouldn't  like  to  say  so.  That's  sweet  of 
you.  You  live  up  to  3-our  well-earned  reputation  for  dis- 
cretion—very wise,  that's  wiiy  you're  always  so  popular. 
(Mabel,  turns  to  say  something'  to  Jack,  and  old  Lady 
Pawso.v  seizes  the  opportunity  to  gasp  at  her  son) 

Lady  H.     Who  are  they  ? 

Mr.  Gilbert.     Don't  know.     Can't  think. 

Lady  II.     Take  me   away.      (she  viaJces  an  effort  to  rise) 

Mabel.  Oh,  dear  Lady  Pawson.  j-ou  will  stay  and  see 
mamma?  She  won't  be  a  moment,  and  she'd  be  so  disap- 
pointed if  she  missed  you. 

Siu  Harry  Milanor  Jias  been  seen,  in  the  upper  room, 
he  now  comes   doivn  to  their  table. 

Sir  Harry.     How  do  you  do.  Miss  Weston  ? 

Mabel,  (looking  up  in  surprise  and  giving  him  her  hand 
with  a  bright  smile  of  u'clcome)  Oh,  how  do  you  do? 
Fancy  you  coming  to  this  out-of-the-way  little  cornei'. 
Lad}'  Pawson.  may  I  introduce  Sir  Harry  Milanor?  (bows) 
Mr.  Gilbert  Pawson,  Sir  Harry  Milanor.  (bon's)  We're  all 
■svaiting  for  mamma,  she's  so  fearfully  late  again,  and  Lady 
Pawson  was  almost  giving  her  up  in  despair,  weren't  you  ? 

LadyH.  (tcho  is  approaching  a  condition  of  mental 
pulp)    I — I  surely  was. 

Sir  Harry,  (looking  curiously  at  Jack)  Hullo,  Ken- 
uerly — it  is  Kennerly,  isn't  it? 

Jack.  It  is.  How  are  you?  (they  nod  to  each  other 
smilingly) 

Sir  Harry.  Fancy  knocking  up  against  you — and  at  a 
tea-figlit  too !  (then  he  turns  brightly  to  the  tea  table, 
■signing  to  one  of  the  loaiting  maids)  I'm  sure  Lady  Paw- 
son can  have  some  more  tea — fresh  tea.  And  muffins. 
Would  you  bring  us — let's  see,  how  manj''  are  Ave  ?  One, 
two,  three,  five — and  some  hot  muffins,  (as  he  gives  the 
maid  the  order  Lady  Pawson  has  another  gasp  at  her  son) 

Lady  H.     Who  is  he  ? 

Mr.  Gilbert.     1  don't  know. 

Lady  H.     Take  me  away  ! 

Sir  Harry,  (turning  to  Lady  Pawsox)  I  think  you 
know  my  aunt.  Lady  Pawson. 

Lady  H.     More  aunts  !     Yes,  of  course,  your  dear  aunt.  • 
She  was  always  delicate  as  a  girl.      (aside   to  Iter  son) 
Take  me  away  !     Something's  gone  wrong  with  my   head. 
I  positively  don't  i-emember  anybodj'. 

Sir  Harry,     (to  Mabel)     How  are  the  twins? 

Mabel.  Oli,  they're  si)lendid.  I'm  just  oil  to  fetch 
them  from  home  now  to  meet  mamma.  As  a  matter  of 
fact.  I'd  forgotten  I'd  promised  to  do  it.  Lady  Pawson, 
did  I  tell  you  that  lovely  story  of  the  twins?  You  remem- 
ber the  twins,  Mr.  Pawson  ? 


THE  AYILDERNESS.  13' 

Mr.  Gilbert.    Dear  creatures ! 

Lady  H.  {aside  to  her  son)  They've  gone  too.  Take 
me  away  ! 

Mabel.  Mamma  had  been  awfully  busy  during  the 
morning,  and  Harold  didn't  think  lie'd  had  half  the  atten- 
tion he  was — oli,  liere's  the  fresli  tea — he  was  entitled  to, 
and  so (Mr.  Gilbert  leaves  his  tea  aicay) 

Sir  Harry,     (siirjjrised)    No  tea? 

Mabel,  {very  syntxiatheticallij)  He  daren't,  he's  still  a 
martyr  to  that  dreadful  dyspepsia.  It's  been  incessant, 
ever  since  July  twelvemonth. 

Mr.  Gilbert.     April. 

Lady  H.  (iiaving  2}idled  herself  together,  rises  inistead- 
ily)  I — I  fear  I  shan't  be  able  to  wait  for  your  mother. 
I — I  find  this  room  too  warm.  Gilbert  dear,  the  carriage 
is  there,  isn't  it  ?     (a.  passing  maid  overhears  the  question) 

Maid.  Your  carriage  has  been  waiting  some  minutes. 
Lady  Pawson. 

Mr.  Gilbert.    Ah  !     {tltey  all  rise) 

Mabel.     Are  you  going  ? 

Lady  H.  {to  her  son)  I'm  going  to  Dr.  Crawley — it's 
something  mental. 

Mabel.     In  Harley  Street  ?    You  pass  our  house. 

Mr.  Gir^BERT.     May  we {Ice  is  going  to  bid  her  fare- 

urll), 

Mabel.  Drop  me  !  OIi,  would  you  !  It  would  be  veiy 
nice  of  you.     You're  sure  I  shan't  be  in  the  way  ? 

Mr.  Gilbert,     {quite  nonjilussed)     Not  in  the  least. 

Mabel.  It's  awfully  kind  of  you.  Then  I  may  bring 
them  here  in  time  after  all.     Good-bye,  Sir  Harr}-. 

Sir  Harry,     {very  gravely)     Until  this  evening. 

Mabel.  Oh  yes,  you're  coming  to  dinner,  aren't  you? 
Good-bye.  I  shall  be  back  with  the  twins  in  ten  miruites, 
anyhow.     I'm  sure  you'd  like  to  see  them. 

Sir  Harry.  I  should.  CMr.  Gilbert  shakes  hands  luith 
Sir  Harry  and  Jack  Kennerly) 

]\Iabel.  Good-bye,  Jack.  You're  off  to  keep  your  ap- 
pointuient,  I  suppose.  Lady  Pawson,  what  would  you  do 
if  you  had  a  cousin  wlio  declined  to  take  you  to  tiie 
Academy  because  lie  liad  an  appointment  to  meet  a  mys- 
terious some  one  at  the  Westminster  Aquarium':'  At  the- 
south  entrance,  too  ? 

Jack.  The  mysterious  some  one  is  only  a  chap  who 
wants  to  see  the  prize  fight  on  .the  biograpii. 

Mabel.  What  time  are  you  due  there  ?  {sJic  fixes  Jack's 
eye  vieanivgly) 

Jack,     (looking  at  his  wateh)     Five  fifteen. 

JIabel.  Oh,  tiien,  as  an  appointment  of  that  sort  is  a 
serious  matter,  I'll  say  good-bye  to  you. 

Lady.  H,    Take  we  away!      {A.i,h  to  each  other,  iviik 


14:  THE  WILDERNESS. 

smiles  and  nods,  "  Good-bye,'"  and  Mabel  goes  otd  chatter- 
ing gall  (I  to  Mr.  Gilbert  and  Lady  Pawson.  Jack  Jiangs 
about  for  a  i)io)n.e)it,  then  crosses  to  tlie  other  table,  piclis 
up  his  gloves,  a)id  begins  tojjut  them  on.  Thelxnid  is  play- 
ing, and  the  various  tea-fables  have  filled  uj)  irith  a  fashion- 
able throng.     Tlie  chatter  is  getting  loiider) 

Jack,     {shortly)     Good-bye,  Milanor, 

Sir  Harry.  Good-bye.  {and  Jack  goes  ?/p  through  the 
throng  and  out  of  the  roo^ns.  Sir  Harry  sits  staring  at 
the  carpet,  drawing  a  p)attern  on  it  irith  his  stick,  then  he 
looks  np  and  all  round  him,  and  leans  back  in  his  chair 
iritli-  a  sigh)  Wliy  the  devil  does  she  always  bolt  whenever 
she  meets  me  ?  {to  Maid)  My  mother  isn"t  by  any  chance 
in  any  of  tlie  other  rooms,  is  she  ? 

Maid,     No.  Sir  Harry,  she  always  has  this  table. 

Sir  Harry.     Yes,  I  thought  she  did. 

Old  Lady  Milanor  enters.  She  is  abojit  sixty-four,  but  the 
judicious  use  of  dye  and  the  poivder  puff  has  made  her 
look  at  least  seventy. 

Lady'  Milanor.  Oh,  Harry,  you're  here.  Are  you 
early,  or  am  I  late  ? 

Sir  Harry,  {rising)  Well,  mother  dear,  we'll  say  I'm 
early, 

Lady'  Milanor.  But,  as  a  matter  of  fact.  I'm  late,  you 
think.  Well,  well,  there  was  a  sale  at  Hampton's,  and  I 
could  not  get  away  from  some  lamp-shades — the  most  ridic- 
ulous reductions — positively  giving  them  awaj'. 

Sir  Harry.  My  dear  motlier,  what  satisfaction  do  you 
get  in  buying  things  at  less  than  tlieir  value  ? 

Lady  Milanor.  Harry,  don't  be  a  fool !  If  I  had  your 
means 

Sir  Harry'.    I  wish  to  God  you  had  ! 

Lady  Milanor.     Don't  fly  in  the  face  of  Providence. 

Sir  Harry.  Wliat  right  liad  Providence  to  saddle  me 
witli  twenty  thousand  a  year  ?  (the  maids  put  a  variety  of 
things  before  Lady'  Milanor.     ,S7(e  u-ares  them  aivay) 

Lady  Milanor.  No.  not  those— tea-cakes,  please. 
You're  an  inveterate  grumbler.  What  on  earth  would  you 
have  said,  or  done,  for  the  matter  of  that,  if  you'd  been  a 
poor  man  ? 

Sir  Harry\  (sloicly)  I  should  have  liad  some  friends 
; and— and  I  should  have  known  exactly  how  I  stood,  as 
regards  my  fellow  man — and  woman. 

Lady  Milanor.  I  think  you  know  pretty  well,  as  it  is. 
You're  thirty-five,  liorribly  wealthy,  and  unmarried.  Con- 
sidering tliose  three  facts,  it's  obvious  that  what  you  don't 
know  really  isn't  worth  knowing.  What  did  vou  want  to 
talk  to  me  about  to-day  ?    I'm  sorry  I  couldu't'be  at  home. 


THE  WILDERNESS.  15 

T  liate  being  at  liome.     Do  ask  that  band  to  play.    What 
is  it,  Harry  ? 

Sir  Harry.  It's  what  you  just  said,  I'm  thirty-five, 
I've  got  twenty  thousand  a  year,  and  I'm  unmarried. 

Lady  Milanor.     Well,  isn't  it  a  blessed  state  ? 

Sir  Harry.     No. 

Lady  Milanor.     What  do  you  want  to  do  ? 

Sir  Harry.     Marry. 

Lady  Milanor.     Why  don't  you  ? 

Sir  Harry.     Because  I've  got  twenty  thousand  a  year. 

Lady  Milanor.  Oli,  I  see.  "Love  me  for  myself 
alone  " — you've  been  reading  poetry. 

Sir  Harry.  No,  I've  been  through  several  London 
.seasons. 

Lady  Milanor.    You  vrant  a  tonic. 

Sir  Harry.     No,  I  want  a  home. 

Lady  Milanor.     Buy  one. 

Sir  Harry.  Tliat's  the  dread.  I  want  to  make  one. 
Suppose  I  try,  and  tind  out,  when  it's  too  late,  that  it  isn't 
liand-made  at  all. 

Lady  Milanor.  Machine-made  articles  flood  the  mar- 
ket now. 

Sir  Harry.    So  I  observe. 

Lady  Milanor.     Well,  they  serve  their  purpose. 

Sir  Harry.     They  may,  but  their  purpose  isn't  mine. 

Lady  Milanor.  My  dear  boy,  marry  to-morrow,  and 
with  your  disposition  and  wealtli  no  woman  would  be  fool 
enough  to  allow  you  to  realize  that  you  weren't  perfectly 
liappy.  Come,  come,  amuse  me.  I've  been  bored  for 
days. 

Sir  Harry,  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  seriously.  I  sup- 
pose it's  no  use. 

Lady  Milanor.  (briskij/)  Not  a  bit,  in  the  afternoon. 
Come  to  Hanover  Square,  about  eleven  on  Friday  morn- 
ing. I  can  talk  seriously  then,  because  I'm  due  at  the 
dentist's  at  twelve.  Do  ask  that  band  to  stop  playing.  It 
<iuite  takes  my  thoughts  from  my  tea.  I  suppose  all  this 
rigmarole  means  that  you  think  you're  in  love  with  some 
one. 

Sir  Harry.     I  can  trace  several  of  the  symptoms. 

Lady  JIilanor.  You're  thirty-five,  so  it's  somebody 
quite  young,  I  suppose  ? 

Sir  Harry.    Quite  young. 

Lady  Milanor.  And  somebody  to  whom  you  would 
appear  in  tiie  light  of  a  great  "  catch." 

Sir  Harry.     That's  tlie  devil  of  it. 

Lady  Milanor.  Well,  it's  everybody's  duty  to  get  mar- 
ried and  be  disillusioned.  She's  not  on  the  stage,  I  sup- 
jiose  ? 

Sir  Harry.    She  is  not  on  the  stage. 


IG  THE  WILDERNESS. 

Lady  Milanor.  Then  take  a  tonic,  plenty  of  fresh  air 
and  exercise,  and  we'll  go  into  the  matter  thoroughl}'  on 

Friday  morning This  is  perfectly  dreadful  tea.     Wlia 

is  she  ? 

8iR  Harry.     Do  j'ou  know  Mrs.  Buckley  Weston  ? 

Lady  Milanor.  Took  in  a  paying  guest  before  she 
married  her  second  husband,  and  just  managed  to  live  in 
Bruton  Street  ? 

Sir  Harry.    Yes. 

Lady  JIilanor.  Buckley  Weston  would  be  far  happier 
in  West  Kensington  now  the  family  is  so  numerous — twins, 
I  believe.     Her  first  husband,  Mabel's  father,  was  a  deitr. 

Sir  Harry.     Mabel  takes  after  her  father. 

Lady  Milaxor.     He  icordd  play  the  cornet. 

Sir  Harry.     Mabel  has  no  small  vices. 

Lady  Milanor.     Then  what  first  attracted  you  to  her  ? 

Sir  Harry.  Don't  think  me  a  fool — but — bui — I've 
•watched  her  playing  with  the  children. 

Lady  Milanor.     Ah  I  slie's  a  clever  girl. 

Sir  Harry.     She  didn't  know  I  was  watching. 

Lady  Milanor.  A  clever  girl  is  always  preparing  for 
the  unforeseen. 

Sir  Harry,  (shmgs  his  shoulders  desjxiii-ingli/)  Per- 
haps it  tcoidd  be  better  to  postpone  this  conversation  till 
Friday. 

Lady  Milanor.     Certainly,  but  you  icoidd  talk. 

Sir  Harry,  (lie  suddenly  leans  forivard  and  faces  her) 
Mother,  when  you  were  young  were  you  ever  real  ? 

I;ADY  Milanor.     {aghast)     Eh  ? 

Sir  Harry.     Or  did  everybody  always  go  on  like  this? 

Lady  Milanor.     Like  what  ?    Is  anything  Avrong  ? 

Sir  Harry.  Everything's  wrong.  Nobody  has  the 
courage  to  be  natural — does  the  difference  never  striko 
you  between  you  as  you  are  now  and  you  as  you  arewlien 
your  maid  draws  the  blinds  in  your  bedroom  in  the  morn- 
ing? 

Lady  Milanor.     (horrified)    Harry ! 

Sir  Harry.  That's  when  you  are  yourself.  What  j^ou 
are  now  is  a  creature  of  j'our  own  creating. 

Lady  Milanor.  You'd  be  exceedingly  pleased  and 
proud  to  walk  down  Bond  Street  with  me  as  I  am  when 
my  maid  draws  my  blinds  of  a  morning,  wouldn't  you, 
dear  ? 

Sir  Harry.     I  don't  see  that  Bond  Street  matters. 

Lady  Milanor.  You  have  obviously  never  seen  a  some- 
what battered  old  lady  of  sixty-four  sitting  on  the  edge  of 
her  bed,  realizing  that  it's  time  to  get  up  and  prepare  for 
the  amusements  of  the  day. 

Sir  Harry.     It  must  be  a  pathetic  picture. 

Lady  Milanor.    It  is,  for  the  first  ten  minutes,  but  it's 


THE  WILDERNESS.  17 

wonderful  what  a  tactful  maid  can  achieve.  Be  grateful^ 
iny  dear  boy.  tliafc  we  do  hide  our  real  selves  from  eacli 
otiier  ;  if  we  didn't,  somebody's  popularity  would  be  dis- 
tinctly on  the  wane. 

Sir  Harry,  {louksat  her  steadily  for  some  time,  then 
(Innvs  a  deep  breath  and  rines)  I  shall  go  down  to  Derby- 
shire next  Wednesday.     I  begin  to  feel  1  want  fresli  air. 

Lady  Milanor.  Ah!  that's  different :  people  can  affordl 
to  be  themselves  wlien  they're  all  ))y  them.selves  in  the 
country.  Your  poor  dear  father  never  dreamt  C)f  wearing 
his  toupet  wlienever  lie  was  outside  the  four-mile  radius. 
{she  shakes  herself  info  shape  and  rises)  I'm  going  to  talk 
to  Lady  Carruthers  ;  I  saw  her  nodding  in  the  corner. 

^l.<?  she  passes  info  the  upper  room  she  meets  1\Irs.  Bucklf-Y 
AVeston,  a  jaded,  somewhat  pompjous-looking  iconian  of 
forty. 

Mrs.  Buckley  Wkstox.  How  do  you  do,  Lady  Mila- 
nor ? 

Lady  ;Milanor.     How  do,  Mrs.  Weston  ? 

Mrs.  Buckley'  Weston.     Is  my  daughter  here  ? 

Lady  Milanor.     Haven't  seen  her. 

Mrs.  Buckley  Weston.  She  was  to  meet  me  herewith 
the  children.  Lm  taking  them  to — Jiow  du  you  do.  Mr. 
Worburn  ?  (Lady  IMilanor  joins  Lady  Carruthers. 
Mrs.  Buckley  V\}i^-vo:s  disappearshehind  arch  to  another 
table.  There's  a  bur.^t  of  lartghter  from  the  upper  room, 
and  the  little  j^irty  at  Worburn's  t(d)le  breaks  np  and 
tiioves  towards  the  door,  ehattering  eheerfnlli/.  Ethel,  as 
she  goes,  sees  Sir  Harry  and  rims  doivn  to  him  leith  a  glad 
cry  and  outsfretehed  hands) 

Ethel.     Hai-ry  ! 

Sir  Harry,  {starting  iq))  Ethel— bless  the  girl— what 
ai"e  you  doing  here  V 

Ethel.  Aunt  Gertrude  and  the  Granger  girls  have  been 
liaving  tea  with  Mr.  V.'orburn — and  he's  taking  us  all  to 
the  Opera  to-night,  {she  stojjs)  Oh,  I  forgot,  you  don't 
like  him. 

Sir  Harry,  (drily)  As  I  know  all  about  him  I  occa- 
sionally have  the  jileasin-e  of  cutting  him. 

Ethel.  Harry,  being  your  youngest  lirst  cousin,  I  can 
call  you  a  crank  without  being  rude.  He's  perfectly  charm- 
ing iiiiil 

Sir  Harry.     And  he's  a  millionaire. 

Ethel.     Just  so. 

Sir  Harry,     (after  a  pause)     Heard  from  Phil  lately? 

Ethel,  (looking  swiftly  up  at  him)  Yes — this  morn- 
ing. 

Sir  H.A.v.iV.     AnytJiing  fresh  ? 

Ethel,     (shaking  her  head   sadly)    Lord    Headmouut 

2 


IS  THE  WILDERNESS. 

told  mamma  he'd  try  his  best  to  get  him  the  appointment, 
but  you  know  what  that  means. 

Sir  Harry.     Poor  old  Pliil ! 

Ethel,  (slowly)  Poor  old  Phil— poor  old  me.  (then. a 
pause,  and  she  shrugs  her  shoulders  with,  a  laugh)  Oh, 
"Harry,  wliat's  the  use  of  breaking  one's  lieart  in  this  world  ? 
Let's" keep  something  to  look  forward  to  in  tiie  next. 

Sir  Harry.     Don't  talk  like  that. 

Ethel,,     You  goose,  I  didn't  mean  it. 

Sir  Harry,  (looking  at  her  gravely)  You  love  Pliil, 
Etliel,  you  told  me  yourself  you  did. 

Ethel,  (shudders  a  little)  Don't,  don't,  it  isn't  kind  of 
you. 

Worbcrn.  (fro'in  upper  room)  Are  you  coming,  Miss 
Glyndon? 

Ethel.  (brigJttly)  Are  you  waiting  for  me?  I'm  so 
sorry.  Good-bye,  old  goose,  good-bye.  (and  she  runs  up 
and  rejoins  the  others,  and  they  go  out.  Sir  Harry  stands 
■motionless  a  minute,  then  draws  a  long  breath) 

Sir  Harry.  Yes,  I'll  get  out  of  it  for  a  bit,  that's  what 
I'll  do.  (he  starts  up  as  a  gau)it,  gray-bearded,  iron-faced 
man  comes  awkwardly  towards  Jiim)  Uncle  Jo,  wliat  the 
devil  are  you  doing  here? 

Uncle  Jo.  Your  man  told  me  where  you  were — so  here 
I  am.  (he  looks  round  at  all  tlte  fasliionable people  in  dis- 
gust)    Wliat  a  hole  ! 

Sir  Harry.     Isn't  it  ? 

Un'CLE  Jo.     What  goes  on  here  ? 

Sir  Harry.     Tea,  and  old  women  and — and  other  things. 

Uncle  Jo.     Come  out  of  it. 

Sir  Harry.  That's  just  what  I've  been  making  up  my 
mind  to  do — get  out  of  it  altogether.  Uncle  Jo,  will  you 
<;ome  for  a  week's  fishing  to  Derbj'shire? 

Uncle  Jo.  A  week's  fishing  ?  I  don't  often  take  a  holi- 
day. 

Sir  Harry.    You  can't  afford  to,  you're  so  rich. 

Uncle  Jo.     Next  week? 

Sir  Harry.     Or  sooner. 

Uncle  Jo.     Next  week. 

Sir  Harry.  Right.  Come  down  there,  just  you  and  I, 
not  another  soul,  and  I'll  show  you  life. 

Uncle  Jo.     Any  females  ? 

Sir  Harry.    Not  a  soul. 

Uncle  Jo.     Ai\y  fish  ? 

Sir  Harry.     Slioals. 

Uncle  Jo.     None  of  this  ? 

Sir  Harry.  Heaven  forbid  !  Just  real  true  life — we'll 
git  out  of  tiiis  wilderness  if  only  for  ten  days,  put  back  our 
shoulders  and  breathe. 

Uncle  Jo.     I  want  to  see  you  on  business. 


THE  AVILDERXESS.  19 

Sir  Harry.  To  the  lions  witli  business.  (Mabel  comes 
.iJu-onylitlieroomiilcadiiKj  tlictiriuti)  Look,  do  you  see  that 
girl? 

Uncle  Jo.     Yes. 

Sir  Harry.  Isn't  she  glorious?  (lie  seizeft  his  tmele's 
■arm)  Uncle  Jo,  come  away  from  liiis  place.  I'm  sure 
that  I'iu  falling  in  love. 

Mabel.  {sa-ectJij)  Still  here,  .Sir  Harry?  I  made  sure 
you'd  be  gone  by  now. 

Sir  Harry.     I'm  going  at  once. 

Mabel.  Tliat  looks  as  if  I  drove  you  away,  (sees  her 
mother  (tt  table  hcltind arch)  Oh,  mamma,  I"m  so  sorry  I'm 
late.  Here  they  are,  and  they're  both  going  to  be  fearfully 
good. 

Mrs.  Buckley  Weston.     You're  coming  with  us? 

Mabel.  No,  I'm  going  home  ;  I'm  tired,  I've  got  ahead- 
ache.  (Sir Harry  is  icatchingher.  Slic  turns  tuLcardsliim 
icith  a  little  sigh) 

Sir  Harry.     A  headache  ? 

Mabel.  It's  nothing,  only  this  hateful,  ceaseless  London 
racket,  (then  she  s)}iiles  sirectli/  upon  him)  I'm  glad  you 
haven't  gone.  I  thought  j'ou'd  like  to  shake  hands  with 
the  twins,  because  you  won't  r.ee  them  for  ages. 

Sir  Harry.     Are  tliey  going  away  ? 

Mabel.  Yes,  mannna's  taken  a  little  place  in  the  coun- 
try, and  we're  all  going  down  for  a  change — away  from  all 
this  sort  of  thing. 

Sir  Harry,  {eagerly — bending  towards  her)  You  too? 
Out  of  the  wilderness  into  the  light. 

Mabel.  Into  the  light,  yes— into  the  light,  (the;/  tool- 
at  each  other,  then  kIic  saijs  slouii/  and  softli/,  still  looking 
into  his  ei/es)     AVe  meet  again  this  evening  ? 

Sir  Harry,     {gravehj)     This  evening. 

Mabel,  (snddenli/)  What  do  you  mean  by  "  out  of  the 
Avilderness  into  the  light"? 

Sir  Harry.     I  thought  you  understood. 

Mabel.  I  thought  I  did  too,  but  now  somehow  I  won- 
der if  my  meaning  joined  with  yours.  I  didn't  fancy  such 
thoughts  ever  came  to  men. 

Sir  Harry.  PerJiaps  you've  never  known  a  man — or  I 
a  woman.    Tlie  precious  "  real"  is  well  wrapped  round. 

Mabel.     Don't  tlie  wraps  unwind  ? 

Sir  Harry.     Not  in  the  wilderness.     The  air's  too  cold. 

Mabel.     But  out  in  the  light  ? 

Sir  Harry.     Please  fJod — some  day — out  in  the  light. 

Mabel,  (looks  straight  into  his  ei/es,  and  says  very  sei^i- 
ously  and  slou'ly,  giring  him  her  hand)  I — I'm  glad  you're 
dining  with  us  to-night. 

Sir  Harry,     (grarely)     Tiiank  you.    Till  then (they 

shake  hands,  and  he  goes  iip  through  the  rooms  and  out) 


20  THE  WILDERNESS. 

Mabel,  {after  n  jwin^e.  smiles  to  lierself)  TJuit's  rooJ^ 
{then  site  looks  at  Iter  wa  I  eh)  Half-past  four.  Tlie  soutlu 
tMitrance  at  quarter-past  live,  I  «aid.  It's  all  right,  liniik 
plenty  of  time. 


ACT  II. 

THE  DARK  HOUR  BEFORE  THE  DAWN. 

Scene. — ^4  earner  of  the  icoods  s^irrounding  the  Bor- 
canibe  Valley.  Large  trees  overhang  on  either  side,  irlide- 
all  around  the  inidergron'th  of  braeken  and  hrainhlf. 
grons  thieklij — an  iinpenetrahle  trail  of  green  leaves  (tiid. 
reel  berries.  The  elearing  in  tlie  centre  is  thick  moss// 
grass,  iitidnlating  into  tnounds.  There  is  a  small  bt-eak 
in  the  undergrowth  at  the  hack.  In  the  centre  of  the 
clearing,  the   grass  grooving  in   the  holloic  betireeti  tiro 

[  mounds  is  of  a  lighter  color  and  circular.  There  are  also- 
on  either  side  laitior  bre(d:s  in  the  braeken  through  which 
the  children  can  enter  the  sacred  2^>'ecincts  by  going  down 
on  their  hands  and  knees.  It  is  now  the  second  of  June, 
and  (d)out  the  middle  of  the  day.  tvhen  to  the  singing  of 
birds  the  curtain  rises.  After  a  jmiise.  Sir  Harry  Torres' 
his  way  through  the  bushes,  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his 
head,  his  necktie  flying,  his  IudhIs  deep  in  the  poclcets  of 
his  shooting  coat,  the  jrhole  man  brimful  of  the  joy  of 
life.  He  looks  7'on ml  at  the  scene  and  smiles.  He  is  fol- 
lowed by  Uncle  Jo,  who  looks  partictdarly  grim  and 
imimpressioncdjle. 

Sir  Harry,  (beaming)  Now,  didn't  I  tell  you  I'd  take 
you  somewhere  whei'e  you  coidd  ])ut  your  shoulders  back 
and  breathe  ?     Didn't  I  tell  you  I'd  show  you  a  spot  "r" 

Uncle  Jo.    Is  this  it '/ 

Sir  Harry.    This  is  it. 

Uncle  Jo.     {shortly)     Oh  ! 

Sir  Harry,  {not  to  bedashed)  I  knew  you'd  like  it, 
I  discovered  this  place  when  I  was  a  kid,  I  grew  u\>  on 
that  mound,  under  these  trees.  I've  known  these  ferns 
when  they  were  ten  feet  high,  and  I  fought  my  way  through 
them  despite  the  attacks  of  frogs  and — and  snakes  and 
bears  and  elephants,  and  all  the  other  might}'  denizens  of 
the  forest — fought  my  way  through  'em,  yes,  that's  where 
I  came,  (he  points  to  a  little  break  in  the  undergrowth) 
That's  the  pass  I  stormed,  till  victory  was  mine,  and  the 
great  peace  of  this  space  spread  out  before  me.  and  I  sat 
down  under  this  mighty  hill  and  looked  around  upon  xay 
kingdom,     (protidly)     My  kingdom  [ 

Uncle  Jo.    Very  interesting. 


THE  WILDERNESS.  0| 

Sir  Harry.  Yes,  isn't  it  ?  Look  !  Look  !  (he point. t  to 
-the  circular  patch  of  grass  in  the  centre)     The  fairies' riiij^  ! 

Just  us  green,  just  as Uncle  Jo,  don't  loolc  at   it  ia 

tliat  sniffy  way. 

Uncle  Jo.     I  sliall  look  at  it  in  my  own  way. 

Sir  Harry.  Well,  y'  know,  the  lairies  won't  like  it,  I'm 
jolly  well  sure  they  won't. 

Unx'LE  Jo.     {taking  out  his  paper  angrily)     Ugh  ! 

Sir  Harry.  You're  very  fidgett3'.  Uncle  Jo.  You  asked 
me  this  morning  with  tears  in  yoiu-  eyes  to  show  jou  the 
fipots  where  I  used  to  play  as  a  child,  and  because  I  allow 
you  to  look  at  'em,  you  become  sniffy. 

Uncle  Jo.  I  asked  you  to  take  me  somev^here  where 
I  could  smoke  in  peace  without  running  the  risk  of  meet- 
ing any  females. 

Sir  Harry.  Well,  it's  done.  Nobody  knows  of  the 
•existence  of  this  spot  except  mo.  I  ought  really  to  have 
blindfolded  you  before  I  brought  you  here,  and  I  almost 
fancy  I  should  chloroform  you  before  I  take  j'ou  away. 

Uncle  Jo.    You're  a  fool. 

Sir  Harry.  Don't  be  so  short  with  me.  Uncle  Jo.  I'm 
really  very  fond  of  you  when  you're  not  short  with  me. 
Now.  you  make  yourself  comfortable  against  that  mountain. 
:and  I'll  make  myself  comfortable  iigaiiist  this  one,  and 
we'll  each  smoke  a  cigar,  think  over  our  past  lives,  and 
forget  that  there's  such  a  place  as  London,  or  such  an 
abomination  of  desolation  as  a  London  season. 

Uncle  Jo.  You  told  me  there  were  to  be  no  females 
— we're  not  here  two  days,  when  who  should  we  meet  but 
the  Buckley  Westons. 

Sir  Harry.  Coincidence.  How  was  I  to  know  they'd 
rented  the  cott;i.ge  ? 

Uncle  Jo.    Ugh  ! 

Sir  Harry.  Personally  I'm  verj'  glad,  it's  given  me  just 
the  chance  I  wanted. 

Uncle  Jo.    How  ? 

Sir  Harry,  {softly,  almost  to  himself)  I've  seen  a  real 
woman  at  last. 

Uncle  Jo.     I've  seen  too  many. 

Sir  Harry.  I  never  saw  one  before,  and  I'm  thirty-five. 
Perhaps  it's  my  fault,  I  may  have  been  blind,  (a  pause) 
Don't  j-ou  tiiink  she's  real? 

Uncle  Jo.    Who  ? 

Sir  Harry.  Mabel  Weston,  {they  smoke  in  silence)  I 
like  to  think  of  her  as  I  see  her  here,  a  wandering  wild 
flower  in  a  world  of  wild  flowers,  (aiiotlier  jxiiise)  There 
are  no  wild  flowers  in  Bond  Street  ;  perhaps  you  haven't 
observed  that  fact. 
V     Uncle  Jo.     {uriviug  paper)     Damn  the  gnats! 

Sir  Harry.      {blandly)      (Jnats    now— gnats !    there's 


22  THE  WILDERNESS. 

something  very  toucliiug  about  gnats,  (and  he  tcipea  one- 
out  of  his  eye.  Uncle  Jo  moves  to  a  tree  with  a  qmiit) 
Now,  don't  tidget  and  snort  ulioiit,  and  don't  dare  to  put 
your  great  hoof  inside  tliat  ring  ;  just  come  peacefully 
back  and  sit  on  your  mountain  if  you  please.  Here  are 
the  matches  for  you.  {he  tosses  them  to  his  unclz"^  How 
old  are  j'ou,  Uncle  Jo  ? 

Uncle  Jo.     {lighting  his  cigar)     Sixty-five. 

Sir  Harry.  AV^ell,  are  you  as  good  a  man  as  you  were 
fifty-five  years  ago?  (Uncle  Jo  grunts  Jiercely)  It's  no- 
use  grunting,  you're  not — you  can't  see  as  well  now  as  you 
did  tiien — I  can't  either.  In  those  days  these  ferns  were 
ten  feet  high  at  least — we've  grown  up.  opened  our  eyes 
wider — and  behold  !  the  ferns  are  only  three  feet  high — 
we've  lost  siglit  of  seven  feet  of  beautiful  ferns,  because' 
we  don't  see  as  clearly  as  we  did  when  we  were  eight 
years  old. 

Uncle  Jo.  If  I  had  many  walks  with  you,  young  man,. 
I  think  I  should  do  you  a  mischief. 

Sir  Harry.  Oli,  no,  you  wouldn't — you  like  my  con- 
versation very  much  indeed  really — you  think  it  over 
while  you're  trying  to  go  to  .sleeji  and  it  does  you  a  lot  of 
good.  Look  at  that  bird's  nest  ;  that  bint's  nest  was- 
there  thirty  years  ago.  I  remember  it  perfectly,  only  it 
was  miles  anil  miles  higher  up  the  tree,  or  perhaps  the 
tree  was  miles  and  miles  taller,  it  was  one  or  the  other- 
Uncle  Jo,  don't  you  feel  rather  dozy? 

Uncle  Jo.    No,  I  doiTt. 

Sir  Harry.  You  don't  !  You  are  an  odd  old  person,, 
aren't  you.  Uncle  Jo?  (a  pause)  Uncle  Jo,  if  you  don't 
feel  dozy — there  used  to  be  a  rabl)it-hole  behind  tiiat  oak 
tree,  tliirt.y  years  ago,  with  a  rabbit  in  it  ;  you  might  go 
and  grub  about  and  see  if  he's  there  still;  if  he  is,  you 
might  tell  him  I'm  here  too,  it'll  interest  him  very  much  ; 
we  used  to  be  very  friendly,  at  least  I  used  to  be,  he  was 
rather  retiring.  (Harry  fs-  Jijiug  at  full  length  on  one  of 
the  inou)ids — his  hands  folded  l>e]iind  his  Jiead)  I'm  not 
looking  at  you.  Uncle  Jo,  but  I  know  perfectly  well  that 
you're  reading  a  paper — a  financial  paper,  all  about  thing* 
tliat  go  up  and  down,  aren't  you,  Uncle  Jo? 

Uncle  Jo.     I  am. 

Sir  Harry.  The  fairies  won't  like  it.  I'm  jolly  well  sure 
they  won't,  right  on  the  top  of  their  mountain  too.  Uncle 
Jo.  it  must  be  very  hartl  on  you  being  a  mone3-grub.  Of 
all  sorts  of  grubs,  it  nuist  l)e  wor.st  to  be  a  nroneygrub  ;: 
doesn't  it  make  you  very,  very  sad,  being  ."^"ich  a  nasty 
sort  of  grub.  Uncle  Jo? 

Uncle  Jo.     No.  it  doesn't. 

Sir  Harry.  Your  goloshes  don't  keep  yoti  dry  while 
you're  sitting  down.  Uncle  Jo. 


THE  WILDERNESS.  25 

Uncle  Jo.     I'm  aware  of  tliat,  sir. 

Sir  Harry.     {sleei)ili/)     Dear  old  Uncle  Jo  ! 

Un'CLE  Jo.  I'll  thank  j'ou  not  to  Uncle  Jo  me  quite  so 
tliorouglily. 

Sir  Harry.  Not — dear  old  Uncle  Jo.  {a  long  jmusc) 
Uncle  Jo? 

Uncle  Jo.    What  ? 

Sir  Harry.  You  are  said  to  be  the  sine  udest,  as  well 
as  one  of  the  wealthiest  men  on  the  Stock  Exchange. 

Uncle  Jo.    Ugh ! 

Sir  Harry.     Is  it  true  ? 

Uncle  Jo.    Quite. 

Sir  Harry.  Then  why  don't  you  give  me  some  money 
for  my  hospital  ? 

Uncle  Jo.     Ugh ! 

Sir  Harry.    Won't  you  give  me  some,  Uncle  Jo  ? 

Uncle  Jo.     No. 

Sir  Harry.  Oh,  don't  sny  it  off  like  that  so  quickly — 
thiidv  it  over  a  little.     Uncle  Jo,  won't  you  ? 

Uncle  Jo.     No. 

Sir  Harry.  You  snid  you  didn't  like  my  keeping  on 
saying  Uncle  Jo,  didn't  yoa,  Uncle  Jo  ";:' 

Uncle  Jo.     I  did. 

Sir  Harry.  Well,  if  T  promise  I  won't  mention  such 
a  horrid  thing  as  Uncle  Jo — for — for — two  hours,  will  you 
give  me  a  thousand  pounds? 

Uncle  Jo.    No  I 

Sir  Harry.  Oh.  well,  will  you  give  me  back  my 
matches?  (Uncle  Jo  tosses  ther.i  to  liiin  irith  a  grunt) 
Uncle  Jo,  have  you  noticed  anything  odd  about  me  lately  ':• 

Uncle  Jo.     Nothing  odder  than  usual. 

Sir  Harry.  I'm  awfully  in  love.  I'm  glad  you've  not 
noticed  it.  Wouldn't  it  be  awful,  if  when  one  had  a  real 
bad  attack  of  love,  one  came  out  in  spots  ?  I  think  that's  a. 
very  lucky  thing  about  love. 

Uncle  Jo.     ]\Iabel  ? 

Sir  Harry.  Mabel,  {apcmse)  And  the  dear  thing  won't 
even  look  at  me.  I  thought  there  was  hope  ten  days  ago, 
but  lately — Uncle  Jo,  do  you  know,  she's  been  positively 
Rnnl)by?  (a  imnse)  I  seem  to  be  talking  about  this  very 
lightly — but — don't  you  be  deceived — that's  only  my  safety- 
valve.  Ui2^i(iise)  I've  written  a  poem  on  her.  (a  pause) 
I  don't  mean  I've  writte?!  on  her — I  mean  it's  about  her — 
would  you  like  to  hear  it  ? 

Uncle  Jo.     No ! 

Sir  Harry.  I'm  .sorry  for  that — it  might  cheer  you  up. 
You  are  looking  so  grumpy.  Uncle  Jo. 

Uncle  Jo.  Ami?  (ct  pdiisr.  Siu  Harry  ^^'i^s  o«-a?/ 
contenierlli/at  Jtis  cigar,  and  Uncle  Jo  becomes  immersed 
in  finance) 


24  THE  WILDERNESS. 

Sir  Harry.  Uncle  Jo,  there's  a  lizard  going  along 
round  that  tree,  I  wonder  where  he's  going.  Where 
should  you  say  he  was  going.  Uncle  Jo  ? 

Uncle  Jo.     To  the  devil,  like  most  other  young  people  ! 

Sir  Harry.  Tlie  fairies  won't  like  your  language  ;  I'm 
jolly  \vell  sure  they  won't,  (a  jxaisc)  Uncle  Jo,  do  you 
see  that  sort  of  a  tunnelly  kind  of  hole,  under  those  ferns':' 

Uncle  Jo.     Yes. 

Sir  Harry.  That's  wliere  I  used  to  crawl  through  when 
1 — oh,  I  forgot— I  told  you  that  before,  (a  ^ja^f.s*?.  Sill 
Harry  is  looking  at  the  hole — suddcalii  he  sits  up  listen- 
ing) Do  you  hear  that  ?  (he  riseft)  Come  away.  Uncle 
Jo.  Le  roi  est  mort,  vive  le  roi !  Come  away  !  {he  seizes 
]di)i) 

Uncle  Jo.     Wliat  the  devil 

Sir  Harry.  Hush,  come  away — we've  no  riglit  here — 
we're  only  "grown-ups"  now\  Come  away,  the  King  and 
Queen  are  coming  to  tlieir  throne,  come  away,  {and  he 
hurries  Uncle  Jo  out  through  the  huslies  at  the  hack,  and 
forces  him  to  liide  behind  a  tree.  After  a  2)ause  a  small 
golden  head  ajipears  through,  the  undergrowth,  and  Harold 
crawls  solemulji  on,  folloieed  by  liis  twin  sinter  Marjorir. 
When  thei/  have  suceessfuUi/  got  through  the  brand>les  and 
ferns  they  turn  and  cautioush/  drag  in  after  them  a  minia- 
ture barrow  heavily  laden  irith  stores  wliieh  they  solemnly 
wheel  to  the  centre  of  the  glade.  Harold  then  sits  down 
on  one  side  of  the  barrow  and  Marjorie  .s/^s  oh  the  other, 
and  they  both,  simultaneously  give  vent  to  a  sigh  of  satis- 
faction over  labor  nobly  done,  contemplating  with  triumph 
the  contents  of  the  barrow) 

Harold.     \Ve  gotted  'em. 

IMarjorie.     I  gotted  llie  bones." 

Harold.  I  do  hope  Piippy  won't  know  wlio  wented  to 
his  kennel  when  he  was  out. 

Marjorie.     He  won't — imless  the  fairies  tells  him. 

Harold.  Whicli  they  won't — 'cos  Ave  only  stoled  'em 
for  tliem — let's  put 'em  mi  their  table,  {they  then  jjrocced 
to  remove  the  old  bones  from  the  barrow  and  put  them  into 
the  fairies'  ring) 

Marjorie.  Tliis  is  a  splendashious  dinner  for  'em.  isn't 
it?  {she  holds  np  the  d"nt]f  i^emains  of  a  haddock  and  sur- 
veys it  with  much  admiration)  I  specs  thev'U  just  love 
that, 

Harold.  I  specs  so.  I  gotted  this  from  tlie  dust- 
liole. 

Marjorie.  I  specs  they'd  like  it  better  to  have  jam 
wiv  it. 

Harold,  {contemplating  his  sister  irith.  a  reproachful 
sigh)     You  etted  up  all  your  jam — you  ;ilwnyr  does. 

Marjorie.     {solemnly)     I   likes   jam — "sides,  ^'~:u's  not 


THE  WILDERNESS,  25 

good  for  these  sort  of  fairies — it's  bones  and  yaddicbs  tvuJ 
sawdust  tliey  likes  best. 

Harold.     How  do  you  know  ? 

Marjorie.  I — I  must  have  3'eard 'em  say  so.  (ajiciusc) 
Yes.  I  must  "ave. 

Harold,  (sniffing  at  fJie  dilapidated  Jitilt)  It's  werry 
nice  and  smelly— tliis  one  is.  (heholds  it  out  ^oMarjorie, 
wJio  sniffs  it  ecstatic(dly) 

Marjorie.     Werry  nice.     I  specs  that's  what 'tracts 'em. 
{then  follows  a  silence,  during  ichieh,  tlieij  sniff  dream  ilji  at 
.  the  haddock  skin.     Their  Joy  is  interrupted  by  the  distant 
voice  of  NURSK  calling   through  the  trees — "Master  Har- 
old !     Miss  Marjorie  !  where  are  5'^ou  ?  '') 

Harold,  (after  a  scared  pause — during  ivhich  the  two 
listen)  She  mushn't  know  'bout  thish  ])lache.  mush  she — 
we's  the  only  jieople  that  know  'bout  thish  plache — no  uii 
■else  mus  ever  know. 

Marjorie.     Cert'ny  not.     Come  on. 

Harold,  (pointing  pensively  to  the  haddock)  Marj — 
she's  so  snilTy — think  she'll  be  able  to  sniff  as  far  as  to 
this  ? 

Marjorie.  (gloomily)  I  specs  so.  (and  she  crawls 
off) 

Harold,  (follou-ing  Marjorie)  I  yope  she  won't,  she's 
so  very  gyeedy.  she  won't  leave  none  for  ye  poor  little 
fairies.  ( and  they  both  solonnly  disappear  under  the  ferns, 
pmshinq  the  empty  barrow  before  them) 

Sir  Harry,     (coming  down)    It  was  beastly   caddish  of 
us  to  listen,  but — but  wasn't  it  beautiful,  Uncle  Jo  ? 
UXCLE  Jo.     Cliildren's  talk  ! 

Sir  Harry.  I  wish  we  didn't  forget  how  to  talk  like 
that.  What  a  selfish  little  brute  I  must  have  been  when 
I  was  a  child.  I  used  to  be  very  friendly  with  the  fairies 
— but — but  I  used  to  think  it  was  their  business  to  do  things 
for  me,  not  me  for  them.  It  never  struck  me  that  they 
had  appetites  like  other  people.  7  never  brought  them 
luxuries  on  a  barrow — did  you,  Uncle  Jo? 
Uncle  Jo.     No ! 

Sir  Harry.  And  s\ich  delicate  dishes  too.  (he  gingerly 
picks  up  the  haddock)  I  think  the  new  generation  is  ;i 
little  in  advance  of  tiie  old.  I  must  have  long  talks  witli 
that  King  and  Queen— they — they'll  do  me  good,  (and  he 
reverently  replaces  the  dilapidated  fish-skin  in  the  ring) 

UnX'LE  Jo.  You  fail  to  observe  that  they  are  supplying 
their  friends  with  other  people's  goods.  The  bones  belong 
to  the  puppy,  and  the— tiiat — whatever  it  is.  is  tlie  penpii- 
site  of  the  dustnum.  That's  the  sort  of  generosity  we  arc 
all  (juite  ready  to  indulge  in.  •* 

Sir  Harry.     Uncle  Jo,  how  did  you  get  ail  the  money 
j^ou've  got? 


2G  THE  WILDERNESS. 

Uncle  Jo.     By  hard  work  and  keeping  my  ej^es  open. 

Sir  Harry.  That's  how  they  got  thei''  treasure — this — 
and  these  bones. 

Uncle  Jo.    Ugh  ! 

Sir  Harry.  But  they've  been  beautiful  and  given  their 
gains  away. 

Uncle  Jo.     Wise  children  ! 

Sir  Harry.  Of  course  tliey  are — but  how  about  you  ? 
You've  kept  your  liaddock  in  your  pocket  and  your  bones 
under  your  pillow.  It's  very  wrong  of  you.  Uncle  Jo.  very 
Avrong,  and  I'm  not  at  all  sure  that  it's  health}'.  {2Kiuse) 
Do  you  see  the  point? 

Uncle  Jo.  \'es,  but  I  don't  mean  to  give  you  a  thou- 
sand jwunds,  so  that's  all  about  it. 

Sir  Harry.  You  do  put  things  so  concisely,  Uncle  Jo^ 
that's  why  I'm  so  very  fond  of  you. 

Uncle  Jo.  (witJi  a  grunt  of  disapproved)  You  going 
to  loll  there  all  day '? 

Sir  Harry.  I  must  have  a  serious  talk  to  myself  occa- 
sionally, you  know. 

Uncle  Jo.     Well,  I'm  going  back. 

Sir  Harry.     Have  another,     {offering  cigar-case) 

Uncle  Jo.  No,  thank  you,  this'll  take  me  as  far  as  tlie- 
liouse.     Good-bye  for  the  present. 

Sir  Harry.  Good-bye  !  (Uncle  Jo  disappears  ihroiigh 
trees  at  the  hack) 

Sir  Harry,      (makes  Jiimself  quite   comfortable)     Now 
I  shouldn't  be  a  bit  surprised — if  I  didn't  have  just  a   littl<v 
doze — nobody  in  tlie  world  knows  wliere  I  am.  except  me. 
(Edith  Cadogan's  I'oice  is  heard  talking  to  Uncle  Jo) 

Edith.  It's  very  fortunate  meeting  j-ou.  I'll  find  him. 
(andsJie  piislies  her  way  through  the  ferns) 

Sir  Harry.  JM}'  gracious,  it's  Edith — what  on  earth  are 
you  doing  here  ? 

Edith.  I  drove  over  with  your  mother  and  Hugli 
Graeme  from  the  Hydro.  I've  brought  you  some  more 
papers  to  go  through. 

Sir  Harry.     Oh.   lord,   if  anybody  ever  makes  me   a 

trustee  again — I — I'll {he  leaves  politely  to  her)    Take 

a  mound  ? 

Edith,     (looking  down  at  him)    No,  thank  you. 

Sir  Harry.     How's  mother? 

Edith.     Blooming. 

Sir  Harry.     She  going  to  be  at  the  Hydro  long  ? 

Edith.     I  don't  know.  ^ 

Sir  Harry.  How  did  you  find  Oi.i,  this  spot — nobody 
knows  of  it.  except  me. 

Edith.     We  ran  into  your  uncle  pist  tliis  minute. 

Sir  Harry.  It's  very  careless  of  Uncle  Jo,  that's  all  I 
can  say. 


THE  WILDERNESS.  27 

Edith.     Aren't  you  glad  to  see  me  ? 

Sir  Hakuy.     No. 

Edith.     Not  a  bit  ? 

Sir  Harry.     Not  a  bit. 

Edith.  I  don't  believe  you,  Harry,  You're  very  fond 
of  me  really,  because  I  haven't  thiovvu  myself  at  your 
head  as  other  girls  have. 

Sir  Harry.     Oh ! 

Edith.  Your  mother  has  been  telling  me  this  morning 
how  very  trying  you  find  it— being  so  badgered.  Why  not 
give  all  your  money  away— to  me,  for  instance— then  per- 
haps   some  one    who    isn't  too  particular  might (she 

IdHghs  (loini  at  him )     What  is  it  ?     "  Love  you  for  yourself 
alone  !  " 

Sir  Harry.     I  wish  you'd  go  away. 

Edith,  {smiluig)  You're  a  sentimental  old  darling, 
that's  what  you  are.  You  will  go  througii  those  papers, 
for  me.  won't  you  ':' 

Sir  Harry.     Um ! 

Edith.     And  send  them  bnok  to  me  to-night  ? 

Sir  Harry.  Yes.  (she  pulls  a  fern  and  sUs  oeside  hiviy 
then  casually  strokes  Jiis  cheek  with  it) 

Edith,     {softli/)     Harry? 

Sir  Harry,     idozili/)     Um ! 

Edith.     Is  that  nil? 

Sir  Harry.     What  more  do  you  w.nnt  ? 

Edith.     You  never  care  to  understand  now — doj'ou? 

Sir  Harry.     No. 

Edith.     Do  you  remember  the  tnllcs  we  used  to  have  ? 

Sir  Harry.  '  Christians,  awake  1  What  a  question  I 
Wliich  talks — what  about? 

Edith.     About  life — serious  life. 

Sir  Harry.     0!i.  lord,  yes  I 

Edith.     We  never  liave  them  now. 

Sir  Harry.     Wlio  wants  to  repeat  oneself  ? 

Edith.     Would  it  be  repeating  oneself  ? 

Sir  Harry.  Wouldn't  it?  Besides,  the  facts  aren't  the- 
same. 

Edith.     You  do  remember  the  talks? 

Sir  Harry.  If  you  mean  a  serious  talk  I  had  with  j'ou 
at  tlie  Gordons'  dance? 

Edith.  (senfimentaU!/)  Out  on  the  leads  off  the  land- 
ing, under  that  shabby  awning.     You  do  remember? 

Sir  Harry.  Yes,  you  were  engaged  to  Dick  Rliodes, 
and  for  some  odd  reason  you  confided  to  v.i*^  that  you 
rather  despised  liim. 

Edith.  Well,  1  <-lid  as  you  wished — I  broke  it  off  next> 
day. 

Sir  Harry,     {sifting  vj})    As  I  wished!    I  like  that;: 


•28  THE  WILDERNESS. 

■what  difference  did  it  iiKike  to  me?  I  said  I  thoiipht  j'ou 
Avere  a  fool,  or  perhaps  rather  worse,  to  be  engaged  to  be 
married  to  a  man  you  •'  rather  despised,"  tliat's  all — and 
— and — J'OU  cliucked  him — no  fool  you. 

Edith.     Do  you  know  Hugh  Graeme? 

Sir  Harry.     Yes— at  school  with  him. 

Edith.     What  do  you  think  of  him? 

Sir  Harry.  Danni  good  chap.  Not  brainy — but  damn 
good  chap. 

Edith,     He  wants   me  to  marry  him  ! 

Sir  Harry.  Oh  !  Damn  good  cliai),  not  brainy — but  a 
damn  good  chap. 

Edith.     I  think  I  shall. 

Sir  Harry.    Ah  ! 

Edith.  You  haven't  any  advice  to  give  me  voir,  I  sup- 
jiose  ? 

Sir  Harry,  (stretching  himsdf  lazily)  My  dear  girl — 
out  on  the  leads — under  a  shabby  awning — with  an  occa- 
sional star  and  a  soothing  band  from  the  room  below,  one 
may  let  oneself  drift  into  giving  advice — but  not  here. 
We  live  here — we  don"t  float  about  in  darkness  un  a  tune. 

Edith,     (shortlij)     I  shall  marry  him. 

Sir  Harry.    I  should. 

Edith.     Thank  you. 

Hugh,     ['eanl  calling)    1  say.  Miss  Cadogan? 

Edith.     There  he  is. 

Sir  Harry.     Nice  voice. 

Hugh.     Where  are  you  ? 

Edith.     I'm  coming. 

Hugh.  Oh  !  in  there,  (he  comes  in.  He  is  a  heavily 
huilt  man  irith  a  vcri/  large  nioustuche)  Here  you  are. 
Lady  Milanor  is  beginning  to  complain  of  cramp.  Hullo, 
Milanor  ! 

Sir  Harry.     Hullo  ! 

Edith.  Very  well,  (she  moves  aivay  hrighil/j  smiling) 
I'll  give  your  love  to  your  mother,  Harry,  and  so  leave 
you.  and  seriously  I'll  take  your  advice  this  time. 

Sir  Harry.     Eh  !     (she  bends  doivn  and  ivhispers) 

Edith.     rU  marry  liim. 

Sir  Harry.  I  believe  you  will.  What  are  some  women 
made  of  ?  (she  laughs,  and  turns  to  Graeue siceetly)  Let's 
SO. 

Hugh,  (crossing  swiftly  to  Sir  Harry)  I  say— has  she 
tohl  vou? 

Sir  Harry.    What  ? 

Hugh.     Tliat  I  want  to 

Sir  Harry.     Oh,  yes. 

Hugh.     Wish  jou'd  jiut  in  a  good  word. 

Sir  Harry.     I"  liave. 

Hugh.     Awfully  good  of  you — at  one  time  she  led  me  to 


THE  WILDERNESS.  20 

suppose  that  you — er — and  of  course  you're  so  deuced  ricli 
that  1  knew  if  you  did  l"d  liave  uu  earthly — but  voii 
don't. 

SiK  Harry,  Certainly  not.  I'm  her  trustee  ;  it  would 
be  illegal. 

Hu(iH.  {much  intjjressed)  Oh,  M-ould  it?  I  didn't 
know — I'm  an  awful  ass  really  ;  peoi)le  don't  know  it,  but 
I  am.     Think  she'll ? 

Sir  Harry.     Sure  she'll — she  said  she  would. 

Hugh,     (delightedly)     Did  she  ? 

Edith,     (from  back  calling)     Must  I  go  alone,  Hugh? 

HuciH.     Coming!     (and  he  dasJies  after  her) 

Sir  Harry.  What  a  nuisance  they  all  are.  If  all  this 
rabble  keep  on  coming  here  tiie  fairies  won't  like  it — I'm 
jolly  well  sure  they  won't,  (his  eyes  rove  lovingly  round 
the  scene,  and  at  length  come  to  a  stctndstill  at  the  sight  of 
(I  note  sticking  out  of  a-  cleft  in  the  trunk  of  a  tree)  Well, 
I'm  hanged  if  somebody  hasn't  written  a  note  and  stuck  it 
up  ill  that  tree.  How  dare  they  do  such  a  thing?  How 
positivel}'  dare  they?  (he  gets  up  and  approaches  it 
gingerly)  Now,  who  put  it  there?  It  couldn't  be  the 
King — lie's  too  small — or  the  Queen  either.  No,  they 
couldn't  liave  done  it,  not  even  by  standing  on  each  other's 
heads.  The  fairies  wouldn't  ajiprove  of  this  sort  of  thing 
— I'lu  jolly  well  sure  they  wouldn't.  I'd  better  put  a  stoj) 
to  it  at  once,  (he  takes  out  the  note  and  looks  at  it)  Not 
addressed  to  a  single  .soul — this  is  very  embarrassing — it 
may  be  meant  for  me — it  must  be  meant  for  me — I'm  tlu^ 
only  person  here.  I — I  hope  it  isn't  important,  (he  opens 
■it  (Old  reads)  "If  I'm  a.  minute  late  I  don't  suppose  1 
.shall  ccHue  at  all." — Hm  1  concise.  Now,  I  wonder  who 
it's  from  an<l  to.  and  liow  long  it's  been  there.  It's  alto- 
gether really  very  odd.  I  think  I'll  put  it  back  again. 
(he  does  so)  Hullo,  more  ]ieople — somebody  must  have  told 
everybody  about  this  place.  It  isn't  half  such  a  cosy  cor- 
ner as  it  used  to  be  when  I  was  eight  years  old,  (he  goes 
behind  one  of  the  bushes)  It's  killed  that  rabbit ;  I'm  jolly 
well  sure  it  has.  (and  down,  throughthc  opening  strolls  the 
innn'tcnlate  youth  Jack  Kexxerly.  He  comes  to  the  tree 
and  takes  the  note,  opens  it.  reads  it  carelessly,  tears  it  vjj, 
2>nts  the  pieces  in,  his  pocket,  and  proceeds  to  light  a  cigar- 
ette, remarking  to  himself  after  about  the  third  pvff) 

.Jack.  Well,  if  she  thinks  I'm  going  to  kick  my  heels 
al)o\it  here  all  day  she's  jolly  well  mistaken — my  train  goes 
at  one  fifty. 

Sir  Harry,  (having  recognized  voice,  says)  Hello, 
Kennerly  ! 

Jack.  '  Who  the Hello  !     (as   Sir    Harry    comes 

round  the  l)ush  there  is  anau-kard  jwuse  ;  it  is  obvious  that 
Jack  is  not  over  glad  to  see  Sir  Harryj 


."30  THE  WILDERNESS. 

Sir  Harry,  {contentedhj  Hitting  doivn  against  tr;c) 
By  gad,  isift  it  a  beautiful  day? 

J.\CK.     It  is.     {anothi'r  patiae) 

Sir  Harry.  Now.  ye  know,  I  can't  help  wondering  to 
.myself  what  brings  you  here. 

Jack.     I  was  wondering  the  same  about  you. 

Sir  Harry.  I  belong  here.  I — I  understand  this  plare 
— you  don't — you  ouglit  to  keep  on  the  gravel  ])a.th.  you 
ought  indeed.  You  seem  lidgetty,  are  you  expecting  any 
one? 

Jack.     No. 

Sir  Harry.  If  she's  a  minute  or  two  late  she  isn't 
coming  at  all— so  I'm  not  in  your  wa}^  am  I  ? 

Jack.     Oh  !  you  read  it  ? 

Sir  Harry.  Yes.  I  thought  somebody  ought  to  read 
it.  It — it  looked  as  if  it  was  just  pining  for  a  little  atten- 
tion. 

Jack.     There's  a  great  charm  about  you.  Milanor. 

Sir  Harry,  (blnndhj)  Yes,  tiiere  is,  isn't  there?  Are 
you  going  to  wait  here  much  longer  ? 

Jack.     Yes. 

Sir  Harry.     Oh  !  then  I  think  I'll  go  away. 

Jack.     Thank  you. 

Sir  Harry.     Don't  mention  it.     Is  she  pretty  ? 

Jack.    Yes. 

Sir  Harry.  Luckj^  man.  (he  looks  at  Jack  icitli  a  sigJi) 
You've  no  income,  no  prospects,  nothing  in  the  world  but 
just  yourself  ;  and — and — "  If  she's  a  minute  or  two  late, 
.she  isn't  coming  at  all."  {a  pause)  Kennerly,  she  means 
coming.  Stand  there  waiting  for  her,  if  you  have  to  wait 
a  thousand  years,  it's  worth  it — she's  coming  just  to  see 
you.  (he  goes  au-ai/  through  trees — touehing  a  berry  here 
and  a  fern,  there  as  lie  goes) 

Jack,  to  himself)  'Pon  my  soul,  I  believe  that  fellow's 
mad.  (tliea  he  begins  sniffing)  Fish  !  I  smell  bad  fisli. 
(Jie  sees  the  fish  a)id  the  bones)  How  the  dickens  did  tliis 
filth  get  here  ?  (and  he  gingerly  chuel's  it  all  away  over  the 
biishes.  After  a  moment's  pause  Mabel  comes  quickly 
through  the  ferns,  a  little  out  of  breath,  but  looking  very 
sweet  and  happy) 

Mabel.  Oh  !  I  am  so  sorry,  Jack,  but  I've  been  look- 
ing for  the  twins. 

Jack.     Lost  again  ? 

^Iabel.    Yes,  they've  been  lost  for  half-au-liour. 

Jack.     They'll  turn  up. 

Mabel.     Oh  jes,  I  hope  so. 

Jack.  They  can't  climb  the  wall,  and  there's  no  jioncl 
for  them  to  fall  into,  so  they're  sure  to  be  all  right. 

Mabel.    You  think  so  ? 

Jack.    Sure  so— aren't  yon  ? 


THE  WILDERNESS.  31 

Mabel.    Yes,  I  suppose  I  a,m. 

Jack.     Tlien  we  can  have  a  minute  or  two  all  alone. 

IMabel.     Yes,  if  you're  very  good. 

Jack.     I"ni  always  good. 

Mabel.     Pretty  good  ? 

Jack,     {softly)     Would  you  like  me  to  be  wicked  ? 

Mabel.     I  don't  know. 

Jack.     Would  you  like  to  experimentalize? 

Mabel.     (looking  at  liim)    No,  I  don't  think  so. 

Jack.     You  seem  doubtful. 

Mabel.     I'm  not  a  bit. 

Jack,  (getting  a  little  nearer  to  her)  Tliere's  a  liorrible 
fascination  in  doing  things  you  know  are  quite  wrong. 

Mabel.     I  know  there  is — that's  wliy  I'm  here. 

Jack,  (slowly,  icitli  a  great  deal  of  intention)  Do  you 
mean  that  ? 

Mabel.    What  ? 

.Jack.     Yoii  know. 

Mabel.  I  don't,  (their  eyes  meet,  she  sJirinls  a  little 
from  him)     What  do  you  look  at  me  like  that  for  ? 

.Jack.     I — I'm  awfully — head-over-ears  in  lovewitli  j'ou. 

Mabel.     Does  that  make  you  look  at  me  like  thatV 

Jack.     Yes  ! 

Mabel.  It  isn't  a  nice  look — it — it  seems  to  have  a  lot 
^behind  it. 

Jack.     It  has ! 

Mabel.     I'm  sorry  I  came. 

Jack.  Tiiat's  not  true — you— you  know  it  isn't  true  ! 
■(he  bends  quite  close  to  her) 

Mabel.  (re2)nlsing  him)  No,  I  don't  want  you  any 
nearer,  (a  jxiuse.  He  hacls  off,  she  sits  on  one  of  the 
mounds.  Iter  chin  in  her  Jiands,  and  stares  at  him)  Jack, 
it's  awfull}'  curious,  isn't  it  'i 

Jack.    What  is? 

Mabel.  Why,  all  this — the  way  we're  going  on  now. 
Just  fancy  you  and  I  being  so  silly  after  having  known 
each  other  all  these  years  ! 

Jack.     It  isn't  being  silly — it's  being  wise. 

Mabel.  We  never  dreamed  of  this  sort  of  thing  in 
London.  What's  happened?  Both  of  us  .seem  to  be  two 
people  now,  wlien  we  meet  with  other  people  about 

Jack,  (bending  over  her,  interrupts  softly)  There's  no 
fun  in  that ! 

Mabel.  I  know  thei'e  isn't  now.  that's  the  funny  part, 
everything's  so  changed — but — but — when  we're  quite 
alone — and — and — together  like  this — it  all  gets  so — so 
<;urious — it  gets — gets  as  if  it  were  dizzy — doesn't  it  ?  You 
-<lon't  seem  to  be  a  bit  like  you.  You  don't  seem  to  be  a 
bit  like  anybody  real — you're  just  a — a— oli  !  I  can't  ex- 
plain— and  I  seem  to  be — a — oh  !  not  myself  a  bit — or — no 


:>>  THE  WILDERNESS. 


o- 


— yes — I  am  myself.  I'm  part  of  myself — but  the  part  of 
me  tliat  I  know  and  everybody  else  knows  seems  far  away. 
It's  awfully  curious.     I — I  wonder  why  I  came  'i 

Jack.     Because  you  couldn't  help  it. 

Mabel.     I  won't  come  any  more  ! 

Jack.    Yes,  you  will ! 

Mabel.     No,  I  won't ! 

Jack.     I  love  you,  Mabel ! 

Mabel.  Do  you?  {a  lo')ig pmise)  I  don't  love  you— at 
least,  I  don't  think  I  do.  No,  I'm  quite  sure  I  don't — be- 
cause, when  I  think  you  over,  somehow  it  strikes  me  that 
you're  quite  ordinary,  and  if  I  loved  you.  you  couldn't  be 
ordinary,  could  you"?  (then  she  lireatcfi  off,  and  says  in  a. 
most  matter-of-fact  manner)  And,  besides,  I  don't  believe 
in  love. 

Jack.     May  I  come  and  sit  quite  close  to  you  ?     {she- 
doesn't   answer,  lie  conies  quiethj  and  stands  beside  her) 
You're  not  really  sorry  you  came  ? 

Mabel.  lam — and — I'm  not — that's  where  it's  so  funny. 
(he  pids  out  Jiis  hand,  and  gentli/  touches  her  liair,  then, 
heads  to  kiss  her,  she  shrinks  from  hitn)  No — don't — Jack 
— don't,  please. 

Jack,  (softly)  I  kissed  you  before  once,  why  mayn't  I 
now  ■?     A  kiss  is  such  a  little  thing. 

Mabel.  It  isn't — it — it's  an  awful  thing — that  kiss  began 
it  all. 

Jack.  '  Of  course  it  did. 

Mabel.  Wliy  should  it  be — be  so  unsettling  to  one  ? 
No — don't,  (she  vioves  from  him)  I'm  serious  about  this 
—I  thought  you'd  understand,  (then  suddenly)  This  is 
the  last  time  I'm  ever  going  to  be  alone  with  you.  Jack. 
I  made  up  my  mind  to  that  while  I  was  coming  here — 
you — you — you're  not  a  good  influence — j'ou  make  me  per- 
turbed. 

Jack,  (in  a  tchisper)  Mab,  there  isn't  a  soul  anywhere 
near  us — we're  all  alone.  God's  beautiful  sky,  and  the 
trees,  and— and  the  soft  grass — and — and— oh,  everything 
that  makes  life  beautiful;  and,  if  I  come  and  sit  quite 
close  to  you,  like  this,  and  just  put  my  arm  round  you. 
like  this— and— oh  !  Mab,  I  may  kiss  you  again,  mayn't  I  ? 

IMabel.  (slowly)  No,  Jack— don't.  It— it's  awfully 
wrong  really.  I've  been  in  a  sort  of  a  cloud  ever  since 
that  night,  but— but— every  time  I  see  you  now,  I  know 
that  it  all  means  nothing  between  you  and  me. 

Jack.  "VVhy  doesn't  it  ?  You  liked  it  when  I  kissed  you^ 
didn't  3'ou  ? 

Mabel.  Yes,  but  I  don't  think  that's  quite  the  point. 
You  (lidn't  kiss  me.  you — you — kissed  the  ivomav  in  me — 
and— and — that  kiss  has  made  a  difference.  Don't.  Jack — 
you  mustn't  do  it  again,     (tlus  quite  serious  and  sloio) 


THE  WILDERNESS.  33 

Jack.     As  you  please,     {he  saunters  aicay) 

Mabel.  Oh,  Jack,  if  one  could  only  understand  what  it 
all  means  ! 

Jack,     {with  a  laugh)     /can. 

Mabel.  Oh  no,  you  can't,  you  can't  at  ull,  that's  wliy 
it's  so  horrid.  Why  should  you  be  able  to  inisettle  nie, 
when  you  can't  really  understand  anj-thinf^V  You  talk 
about  "  the  sky  and  the  trees  '' — but,  oh,  Jack,  you — you — 

don't  care  a  bit  about  them  really — you {fJien  tcitli.  a 

ci»aplete  change  she  breaks  off)     Oli,  don't  lefs  talk  about 
til  is  any  more— let's  ro  and  look  for  the  twins. 

Jack,  {reproachfully)  Oh,  I  say,  Mab,  don't  go  on  like 
this  ;  it  isn't  as  if  we  had  all  the  morning,  my  beastly 
train  goes  at  one  fift}',  and  I  shan't  see  you  again  for 
niontlis. 

Mabel.     Tliat's  a  good  thing. 

Jack,     {coming  to  her  and  holding  out  his  arms)     Mab  ! 

Mabel.  Don't  be  silly,  Jack— we'll  forget  this  last  ten 
dnys,  and  go  back  to  where  Ave  were  before. 

Jack.     We  can't.     I  can't,  and  I'm  sure  j-ou  can't. 

BIabel.     lean,     {a  long jianse)     I  am. 

Jack,  (n-liispers)  Are  you  reallj-,  Mabel  ?  {she  is  sif- 
ting on  the  slope  of  the  mound.  He  is  k)ieeling  close,  and  a 
little  above  her.  Ashe  sjjeaks.  he  steals  hislaaids  round  her 
throat,  and  turns  her  face  vjy  towards  his,  till  their  eyes  meet 
in  a  long  look.  She  shivers  a  little,  but  makes  no  resistance  ; 
as  he  bends  his  face  nearer  her.  she  whispers) 

Mabel.  Don't,  Jack — oh,  don't — it's  so  awfully  wrong. 
{and  their  lij^s  meet — the7i  there  is  a  long  pause,  during 
irhich  he  draivs  her  closer  to  him.  Tliey  become  listless, 
she  stares  out  in  front  of  her.  He  takes  her  hand  and 
.strokes  it  gently  with  Jus  own.  She  says  slowly)  Where 
are  we  drifting,  do  you  know.  Jack  ? 

Jack.     I'm  too  happy  to  think. 

Mabel.  I  must  think,  (a  pause)  Are  you  really 
happy.  Jack  ? 

Jack.    Yes. 

Mabel.     Really  and  truly  happy  ? 

Jack,     {kissing  her  hands  tenderly)     Really  and  truly. 

Mabel.  I'm  not.  I'm  miserable— oh,  so  miserable  I 
{she  flings  herself  away  from  him  and  lies  on  the  mound, 
her  face  Iddden  in  her  hands) 

Jack.     Mab!  Mab! 

Mabel.  I— I'm  beginning  to  understand,  {she  gets  up 
and  walks  towards  the  bushes  at  one  side  and  pulls  at  the 
leaves;  then  after  a  jKmse,  she  says  quietly)  Jack,  you — 
you  say  you — love  me? 

Jack,  {softly)  You  know  I  love  you.  (Mabel  bows 
her  head  a  little,  still  pulling  abstractedly  at  the  leaves, 
passing  them  through  and  through  her  fingers) 

3 


34  THE  WILDERNESS, 

Mabel.  Then  you — you'd  like  to  marry  me  ?  (there  is 
<t  pause — she  realizes  the  silence — looks  iip  qiriclclij,  and 
turns questioningly  to  him)     Why  don't  you  answer? 

Jack,  {sloidy  and  a  Utile  lamehj)  Of  course  I'  '  like  to 
marry  you. 

Mabel.     AVhy  liave  you  never  said  anything  about  it? 

Jack.  Oh,  because—  {he  laughs  lightly) — it's  impos- 
sible— it  would  be  too  absurd. 

Mabel,  (stares  at  him  in  silence,  then  says  quietly  )  I 
don't  quite  luiderstand  that. 

Jack,  (nervously)  Wliy,  my  dear  girl,  I've  no  money, 
you've  no  money,  A  pretty  figure  we  should  cut  if  we 
married. 

Mabel,  (sloicly)  "A  pretty  figure  we  should  cut" — 
and  j-et  you  love  me. 

Jack.     That's  very  different,     I  can't  help  loving  you. 

Mabel.  But  you  can  lielp  marr\'ing  me,  I  see.  How 
nice  to  have  so  much  self-control  !  (tJie  two  stand  staring 
at  each  other,  fill  he  drops  liis  eyes  and  kicks  at  the  tnrf  in 
embarrassment)  I'm  glad  I  caTneout  here  to  you  to-day — 
you've  steadied  me,  (a  pause.  Tliey  look  at  each  other 
enriously)  Do  you  know,  during  this  last  week,  I've  been 
seriously  thinlcing  of  letting  my  chances  of  a  brilliant 
future  slip  tlu-ough  my  fingers  ? 

.Lack.     Wliy? 

Mabel.  You.  (looking  at  him  intently)  Tlie  new 
"  you  " — what  you  said  and — and — did — made  it  seem 
suddenly  wrong  of  me  to  marry  him. 

Jack.     I  didn't  mean 

Mabel.  (interrupting  sorrowfidly)  You  didn't  mean 
anything,  I  know  that  now.  Do  you  remember  talking  to 
me  chaftingly  in  London  about  love,  and  telling  me  if  ever 
I  took  up  tlie  subject  you'd  teach  me  the  rudiments  ?  I 
thiidv.  you've  done  it,  don't  you  ?  But  the  odd  jmrt  is,  that 
up  to  a  minute  ago,  I  had  begun  to  think  love  too  serious 
to  he  a  game. 

Jack,     A  minute  ago  ? 

Mabel.  You  made  me  imderstand  tliat  love  is  nothing 
really  ;  you  can  take  my  hands,  j-ou  can  kiss  me,  shame 
me  in  my  own  eyes  and  your  own.  because  you  love  me. 
What  comes  of  it?  (she  laughs  a  little)  "I've  no  money 
— you've  no  money,  A  pretty  figure  we  should  cut," 
Your  own  words.  Jack,  your  own  words,  just  think  them 
over.  You've  brought  me  back  again  to  common  sense. 
No,  no  !  Love  may  be  very  attractive,  but  mariiage  is 
more  tangible.  I'll  marry  Sir  Harry  and  find  my  amuse- 
ment in  seeing  how  it  turns  out.  (she  gives  a  hard  little 
laugh  and  swings  on  her  heel  as  if  to  go) 

Jack.     You're  angry  with  me  ? 

Mabel,     You're  onlv  a  coward,  that's  all. 


THE  WILDERNESS.  35 

Jack.  You're  unjust.  I  should  be  a  coward  to  marry 
jou.  I  can  give  you  nothing,  lie  can  give  you  everything. 
{then passionately)    Oh.  Mabel! 

Mabel.  {cJiecks  him  with  a  bitter  little  smile)  Don't  worry 
yourself.  I'm  very  grateful  to  you,  Jack,  But  for  you  I 
might  have  made  a  fool  of  mj'self.  As  you  love  me  so 
very  dearly  I  promise  you  one  thing.  I'll  write  and  let 
you  know  when  the  wedding  day  is  fixed. 

Jack,  (shortly)  Tliank  vou  !  I  sujipose  it  will  come 
■oflf? 

Mabel.  Oh  yes,  with  a  little  tact — I'm  very  young,  but 
I've  been  well  trained,  {then  her  voiee  breaks  a  little,  and 
she  turns  a)id  faecs  hi)]i.  her  lips  quivering,  her  eyes  filling 
until  tears)  But  look  liere,  Jack  ;  don't  go  on  tlnidcing 
you're  in  love  and  kissing  peojile — it  may  be  all  right  for 
you,  but — but  it's  a  little  dangerous  for  the  girl. 

Jack.     You  mean 

Mabel.  I  mean — that — that — it  very  nearly  made  a  dif- 
ference to  me. 

Jack,     (coining  to  her)    "What  difference? 

Mabel.  It  tempted  me  for  a  moment  to  think  that 
perhaps  there  were  things  in  life  more  important  than 
making  one  of  the  biggest  matches  of  the  season. 

Sir  Harry  comes  down  through  the  trees,  is  surprised  at 

seeing  Mabel. 

Sir  Harry.    You  I    You  ! 

Mabel,  {with  a  complete  change  of  manner  turns  to  Sir 
Harry  irith  a  sunny  smile)  I — I  suppose  we're  trespass- 
ing, aren't  we? 

Sir  Harry.  Not  a  bit.  But  how  on  earth  did  you  dis- 
cover this  out-of-the-way  corner  of  the  world  ? 

Mabel.  I  came  here  to  meet  Jack,  because  I  thought 
we  should  be  quite  alone. 

Sir  Harry,  (gravely)  I  see  !  Then  it  is  clearly  my 
duty  to  remove  myself. 

Mabel.  That  doesn't  follow.  .Jack  and  I  have  had  a 
very  serious  talk,  but  we've  said  all  we  had  to  say — and — 
and  it's  over — and  he  has  forgiA'en  me. 

Sir  Harry,  (looking  from  one  to  the  other)  What  had 
lie  to  forgive  ? 

Mabel.     A  great  deal,  hadn't  you,  Jack  ? 

Jack,  (laughing)  A  great  deal — are  you  coming  back 
to  the  house? 

Mabel.     No,  I'm  going  to  sit  here  and  talk  to  Sir  Harry. 

Sir  Harry.     Seriously  ? 

Mabel.     I  always  talk  seriously. 

Jack.     It's  nearly  Innch-tinie. 

jMabel.  I  hate  lunch  !  If  I'm  late,  explain  to  mamma 
that  I've  lost  myself  in  the  woods  with  Sir  Harry. 


S3  THE  WILDERNESS. 

Jack,  (slioyflij)  I  will.  {]te  strolls  aicay.  She  laughs 
lightly  as  he  moves,  then  calls  after  him) 

JMabel.  I'll  write  to  you  as  I  promised,  you  ought  to 
get  the  letter  in  two  days.     Good-bye. 

Jack.  Thanks  !  I  slian't  see  you  again  then — my  train 
goes  at  one  fifty. 

Mabel.     So  it  does  !     Good-bye. 

Jack.     Good-bye.     {and  he  goes) 

Sir  Harry,  {looking  at  Mabel,  7cho  ?'s  lying  aaainst 
the  mound,  her  hands  clasped  behind  her  head,  looking  iip 
into  the  sky)     Why  have  you  sent  him  away  'f 

Mabel.     I  haven't.     He  just  went. 

Sir  Harry.     Did  I  drive  him  away? 

Mabel.     No  ;  he  was  going  before  you  came. 

Sir  Harry.     I  read  the  note  j'ou  stuck  in  the  tree. 
'     Mabel,     {calmly)     Did  you  ? 

Sir  Harry.  Have  vou  been  having  a  very  serious 
talk  ? 

Mabel.  Very.  Sir  Harry,  do  all  girls  hate  themselves 
as  much  as  I  hate  myself? 

Sir  Harry.     Do  you  hate  yourself  ? 

Mabel.  Awfully !  So  would  you  if  j'ou  knew  what 
I've  done. 

Sir  Harry.  .Should  I?  {he  comes  a  little  toicards  her) 
Tell  me  what  you've  done. 

Mabel,  {sloidy)  I'm  afraid  I've  been  flirting  with 
Jack. 

Sir  Harry.    Have  you  ? 

Mabel.  Yes,  I  think  I  must  have  been.  I  didn't  mean 
to.  I  didn't  know  it  was  flirting,  he  says  it  was,  and  i  ex- 
pect he  knows  more  about  it  tlian  I  do. 

Sir  Harry.     I  shouldn't  wonder. 

Mabel.  And  then  quite  suddenly  it  all  got  serious,  and 
— and  so  I  wn'ote  that  note  and  came  out  here  to — to  ttU 
him  how  sorry  I  was — and — and  to  ask  him  to  forgive  me. 
It's  awful  when  a  person  asks  you  to  marry  thetn  and  you 
don't  want  to,  and  so  have  to  say  no.  You've  never  been 
through  that,  have  you  ? 

Sir  Harry.  Almost ;  you  see  I've  twenty  thousand  a 
year. 

Mabel,  {sitting  iip  and  facing  him)  You  mean — oh. 
how  horrid  for  you  !  What  fools  women  are — as  if  money 
mattered  !  {she  lies  back  again)  That's  what  made  Jack 
so  angry  just  now.  He  said  I  wouldn't  marry  him  because 
he  was  poor.  Why,  one  couldn't  help  marrying  a  man  if 
one  loved  him,  however  poor  he  was,  could  one  ? 

Sir  Harry.     Poverty  is  a  blessing  sometimes. 

Mabel,  {suddenly)  Oh,  Sir  Harry — Sir  Harry — why  is 
there  such  a  thing  as  life  ?  i  wish  to  goodness  I  was  a 
beetle  ! 


THE  WILDERNESS.  37 

Sir  Harry,  (smiling  down  at  her)  What  would  you 
gain  ? 

Mabel,  (icearily)  Nothing,  I  suppose— even  beetles 
get  trodden  on  at  tlie  finish,  (a  jitmse,  then  she  looks  vp 
at  him  suddenly,  and  says)  Did  it  strike  you  that  I'd  been 
tlirting  with  Jack  ? 

Sir  Harry.     I've  never  seen  you  together. 

Mabel.  Haven't  you  ?  Oh,  I  suppose  you  haven't — but 
does  it  strike  you  as  likely  ? 

Sir  Harry.    No. 

Mabel.  I'm  sure  I  haven't  been.  Jack  must  have  mis- 
understood me.  Why,  I've  known  Jack  since  he  was  a 
little  boy.     (she  sighs  serdimentally)     Poor  old  Jack  ! 

Sir  Harry.     Poor  old  Jack  ! 

Mabel.     I  hope  it  won't  pi'event  our  remaining  friends. 

Sir  Harry.     I  Jiope  not. 

Mabel.  Well,  I  can't  help  it  if  it  does,  can  I?  Just 
fancy  what  it  would  be  to  many  any  one  one  didn't 
love. 

Sir  Harry.  You  talk  very  glibly  of  love.  What  do 
3'ou  know  about  it  ? 

Mabel.     Nothing.     I  only  dream. 

Sir  Harry.  You  have  dreamt  of  love — tell  me  what 
■"  love  "  seems  to  you. 

Mabel,     (a  little  at  a  loss)     Oh — a  man 

Sir  Harry.     Naturally. 

Mabel.  And,  if  you  love  him— it— means  that— that  you 
love  him — that  you— that  you— oh — tliat  you're  able  to  be 
your  real  self  when  you  are  witli  him.  That  you— oh,  I 
■tlon't  think  I  know  reall.y,  anyhow,  I  can't  put  it  into  words. 
(site  tiirns  on  her  shoulder,  and  looks  up  at  hivi)  You  tell 
me  what  you  mean  by  "  love." 

Sir  Harry.  When  I  was  about  your  age,  I  think  I 
must  have  had  the  same  ideas  about  love  that  you  have. 

Mabel.  You  can't  tell  what  ideas  I  have,  because  I 
couldn't  think  of  the  words  to  ])ut  them  in,  and  tell  you. 

Sir  Harry.  It  doesn't  want  words  to  tell  wliat  your 
ideas  of  love  are.  He's  a  fairy  ])rince.  (she  makes  an 
amused  grimace  to  herself,  then  says  sentimentally) 

Mabel.  I  shouldn't  care  if  he  was  a  beggar,  so  long  as 
he  was  Love. 

Sir  Harry.  Wouldn't  you  really  !  (then  he  moves  to- 
ivards  her,  vith  a  laugh  of  delight)  Oh,  what  a  treat  it 
is  to  talk  to  you  ! 

Mabel,     'i^ou're  making  fun  of  me. 

Sir  Harry.  I'm  not.  I'm  in  deadly  earnest.  You've 
no  idea  what  a  treat  it  is  to  meet  some  one  who  wouldn't 
care  a  liang  if  you  were  a  pauper.  Now  look  here,  let  you 
and  I  be  tlioroughly  ourselves  and  have  a  talk. 

Mabel,     (falling  into  his  mood  at   once)     Oh,  if  one 


38  THE  WILDERNESS. 

could  always  be  oneself  wouldn't  it   be  splendid  ?     But 
there  are  so  few  people  who'd  understand. 

Sir  Harry.     I'd  understand. 

Mabel.     Yes,  I  think  you  would. 

Sir  Harry.  Then  if  you  think  that,  you  know  I — I"ni 
■worth  making  a  friend  of. 

Mabel.     Yes,  I  know  that  too. 

Sir  Harry.  Then  wliy  have  you  avoided  me  so  steadily 
these  last  ten  days,  won't  you  tell  nie  ?  You  can  trust 
me.  Remember  we're  botli  being  thoroughly  ourselves. 
so  nothing  we  say  matters.  Why  have  you  avoided 
me  ? 

Mabel.  Because  {very  sloidy)  I've  got  a  friend — a  girl 
friend — who,  when  she  heard  we  were  coming  down  to 
stay  here,  said  it  was  "  clever "' of  me — as  j'ou  were  a 
great  catch. 

Sir  Harry,  {icith  disgust)  Isn't  it  like  them  ?  Oh, 
how  I  hate  my  friends ! 

Mabel.     So  do  I.     That  one  especially. 

Sir  Harry.     And  that's  wlij-  j-ou've 

Mabel.  That's  why.  (a  pmese)  Isn't  it  awful  for 
you  ? 

Sir  Harry.     What  ? 

Mabel.     Being  such  a  catch. 

Sir  Harry.     I've  not  been  caught  yet. 

Mabel.     You  will  be  some  day. 

Sir  Harry.     I  keep  my  ej-es  open. 

Mabel.  Wliafs  the  good  of  that  'i  Love's  eyes  may  be- 
open,  but  Love  is  blind. 

Sir  Harry.  {gently)  Not  alwaj-s.  {she  rises  and 
^L1alks  slowly  to  the  centre  and  stands  staring  at  the  fairy 
ring.     He  iratches  her) 

Mabel.     Do  vou  know  what  that  is? 

Sir  Harry.  'What? 

Mabel,     (pointing)    That. 

Sir  Harry.    That  circle  of  pale  grass  ? 
I  I\Iai?el.     Yes. 

Sir  Harry,     {watching  her)     Bad  turf,  of  course. 

Mabel.     No.     {very gravely)     That's  the  fairies"  ring. 

Sir  Harry.     Is  it  really  ? 

Mabel.  Yes.  really.  And — they  come  here  when  the- 
■wicked  people  in  the  world  are  asleei),  and  solemnly  dance 
round  and  round. 

Sir  Harry,  (anxiously)  Do — do  you  like  to  believe 
that  ? 

Mabel,     (gravely)     Yes. 

Sir  Harry.  Oh,  ]\lal)el,  so  <lo  I.  (he  seizes  her  hands 
and  laughs  delightedly)  I  love  to  believe  those  things, 
tliey  make  life  beautiful — what — what — oh,  what  a  dear 
you  are ! 


THE  WILDERNESS.  3<> 

Mabel.     Don't  be  foolish,  Harry  ! 

Sir  Harry.  I — I  can't  heli)  it.  Tell  me  more  about 
the  fairies. 

Mabel.     You  wouldn't  care  to  hear. 

Sir  Harry.  Wouldn't  care?  Why — why — look  here — 
ril  tell  you  something.  Before  you  came  I  brought  Uncle 
Jo  here,  and  I  told  him  all  about  'em — and  he  didn't  care 
a  bit — he  kept  on  reading-  his  stuffy  paper  all  about 
beastly  money  and — I  told  him  the  fairies  wouldn't  like 
it,  but  he  went  on  just  tiie  same.  Oh,  I'm  so  glad  we've 
liad  this  talk — we  might  have  been  j^ears  before  we  got 
to  know  eacli  other  as  well  as  we  do  now.  {the  bell  of  the 
old  church  clock  is  heard  faintly  in  the  distance) 

Mabel.     Half-past  one.     Oh,  I  nuist  go. 

Sir  Harry.  Not  yet.  Oh,  don't  go  yet.  What  does 
time  matter?     We've  all  our  lives  before  us. 

IMabel.  You  can  do  as  j'ou  please.  I  can't.  I'm  only 
a  girl — and  stern  duty 

Sir  Harry.  Stern  duty  saj-s  stay  here.  Why,  all  our 
future  may  be  at  stake — we're  here  in  the  fairies'  ring. 
(she  tries  to  iiwve  lier  hands  from  his)  No — no — don't — 
not  yet.  I — Ive  got  a  heap  to  say.  You  were  talking  of 
love  just  now — wondering — we  botli  wei'e — what  it  was. 
I'll  tell  you  wiiat  it  is— it's  what  I've  got  for  you. 

Mabel.     Don't — don't 

Sir  Harry.  I  must.  It— it  isn't  the  stuff  they  write 
about  in  books — it's  just  "  love.''  Mabel,  we've  both  got 
to  live  our  lives,  and — oh,  it's  so  Iiard  to  live  one's  life 
effectively  alone,  but  if  you'll  take  ])ity  on  me.  join  liands 
with  me  forever  as  we've  joined  hands  now,  what  a 
chance  we'd  have,  wouldn't  we?  Why,  we  could  go  back 
into  the  wilderness  witii  perfect  faith,  trust  and  confidence 
— we  could  stand  shoulder  to  shoulder  and  go  through 
with  everything  without  a  fear.  You're  real — I'm  realat 
last.  Will  you  liave  me,  IMabel,  will  you  have  me?  (then, 
with  a  crij,  she  flings  herself  froui  him,  and  throios  herself 
sobbing  upon  the  grass) 

Mabel.     No— no— oh,  don't !     No!     No! 

Sir  Harry,  (going  to  her  and  kneeling  in  great  distress) 
My  dear  !     My  dear  ! 

Mabel.  Oh,  don't !  don't— go  away  !— I  didn't  think— 
I  didn't  mean 

Sir  Harry.  Hush,  dear,  hush!  W^hy,  my  little  one— 
what  is  there  so  terrible  in  knowing  that  there  is  some 
one  ready  and  willing  to  lay  down  his  life  for  you?  (a 
long  pause.  She  gets  up  and  moves  away,  controlling  her- 
self) 

Mabel.  T— I'm  sorry.  I  didn't  mean  to  be  a  fool. 
(then  she  t}ums  to  him,  and  they  look  lung  into  each  other's 
eyes — till  su-iflly  she  flings  out  her  arms  to  himicitha  cry — 


40  THE  WILDERNESS. 

half  sob,  half  laugh)  Oh,  Harry,  Harrj',  if  you  were 
starving  I'd  inarry  you  to-morrow. 

Sir  Harry,  {very  gravely)  You'll  marry  me  this  day 
month  ? 

Mabel.  Don't  ask  me  to — oh,  please  don't  ask  me  to. 
{and  he  slowly  draws  her  to  him  and  kisses  her.  Slie 
■stands  passive  and  suhviissive,  and  as  he  releases  her  she 
.•^inks  again  to  the  ground  and  buries  her  face  in  her 
It  a.) ids) 

Sir  Harry,  {after  a  pause,  raises  her  very  tenderly — 
holds  her  at  amis  lengtli,  looking  at  her  proudly)  My 
wife  !  {then  he  tvhispers,  bending  towards  her)  What 
have  you  got  to  say  ':' 

Mabel,  {slowly)  Notliing  —  nothing  at  all,  except 
that — {with^  a.  little  sob)    I — I'm  very  tired. 

Sir  Harry,  {tenderly)  Poor  dear,  (he  puts  Jiis  arm 
round  Iter.  They  turn  to  go.  As  they  reach  the  opening  in 
the  trees  he  stops  and  looks  doivn)     A  violet  ! 

Mabel,     {quickly)     Don't — don't  pick  that. 

Sir  Harry,  {looldng  vp  at  tier)  I  wasn't  going  to, 
really,  {lie  smiles  happily)  Oh,  isn't  it  all  good?  (then 
he  lifts  his  head  and  stands  for  a  moment  listoiing)  Hush, 
<;ome  away,  {they  back  off  beliind  the  tree  as  the  golden, 
lieads  appear  throngh  the  bushes  and,  the  twins  solemnly 
toddle  to  tlie  fairy  ring  and  contemplate  it  gravely) 

Harold.  They've  etted  up  the  yaddick.  I  knowed 
they  was  hungry. 

CURTAIN. 


ACT    III. 


THE  DAY. 


Scene. — A  very  comfortable  home  room,  half  library,  half 
drau'ing-room.  A  big  fire  burning.  In  front  of  it,  in  a 
big  arm-chair,  Sir  Harry  lying  reading  a  book.  At  a 
table  not  far  off  I\Iabel  sitting  tvorking.  The  curtain 
rises  and  then,  a  long  silence,  no  movement. 

Sir  Harry,  {suddenly  looking  vp)  from  his  book) 
Sweetheart  ! 

Mabkl.     (quietly)    Yes  ? 

Sir  Harry.  Edith  and  Hugh  are  coming  in  about  nine, 
they're  in  a  fix  over  some  business  or  other. 

Mabel.     Poor  Edith  ! 

Sir  Harry.  Poor  me  !  I'll  never  be  a  trustee  again, 
as  long  as  I  live,     (he  goes  on  reading.     Another    long 


THE  WILDERNESS.  41 

jiause.  She  rises  and  com:r.  and  siands  beside  him — jmts 
her  hand  on  his  head.  He  puts  itis  hand  up  and  takes 
hers) 

Sir  Harry,  (softly)  Dear  old  sweet  !  I  feel  awfully- 
dozy — play  something.  (Mabel  goes  to  jiiano  and  plays, 
a)id  Sir  Harry  continues  dreaindy)  Life's  a  beautiful 
thing  when  it  goes  straight,  don't  you  think  so? 

Mabel.  Beautiful,  {she  leaves  the  piano  and  comes  don-n 
and  sits  on.  the  floor  beside  him  ;  wiili  one  hand  he  strokes 
her  hair,  tlie  other  holds  up  his  book.     He  goes  on  reading) 

3Iabel.     You've  taught  uie  such  a  lot,  Harry. 

Sir  Harry.     Have  I  ? 

Mabel.  There's  such  a  lot  in  you,  I  don't  understand — 
but— but  I'm  trying,  Harry. 

Sir  Harry.  Don't  worry,  it's  not  worth  it.  I'm  glad  you 
told  me  to  read  this  book,  it's  jolly  good,  (another  long 
pause  ;  he  reads,  and  she  stares  at  the  fire) 

Mabel.  I'm  awfully  happy,  and  1  know  I  don't  de- 
serve to  be. 

Sir  Harry,     (reading)    Who  does,  if  you  don't  ? 

Mabel.  I  don't  know  ;  but  I  know  I  \lon't.  (a  pause) 
Hariy,  put  down  that  stuffj'  book,  and  talk  to  me — I — I 
want  to  say  heai)s  of  things. 

Sir  Harry.  Oh,  my  dear.  I'm  at  such  an  interesting 
part.  She's  just  discovered  that  her  motlier  drinks,  and 
it's  upset  her  fearfully,  (he  chucks  the  book  away)  What 
do  you  want  to  say,  old  sober-sides  V 

Mabel.    Lots  of  things. 

Sir  Harry.  Fire  away,  (a  pause,  Maeel  stares  into 
the  fire) 

JNlABEL.     Do  lies  really  matter  ? 

Sir  Harry.  I  don't  like  lies— but  I'm  rather  old- 
fashioned. 

Mabel.  Aren't  they  all  right  if  they're  in  what  turns 
■  out  to  be  a  good  cause  ? 

Sir  Harry.  I'm  afraid  lies  are  rather  a  matter  of 
temperament. 

Mabel,  (thoughtfully)  A  good  cause!  Why  did  I  say 
that  ?  How  is  one  to  know  if  it's  a  good  cause  ?  What's  a 
good  cause  to-day  seems  a  bad  cause  to-morrow. 

Sir  Harry.    Um  ! 

3IABEL.  Don't  say  um.  Now,  suppose  a  person  who 
didn't  know  anything  about  anything  was  shown  some- 
tliing  she  didn't  want,  and  was  made  to  believe  that  that 
something  tliat  she  didn't  want  was  what  she  ought  to  have, 
and  so  she  set  to  work  and  got  it.  Well,  wiien  she's  got  it, 
she  finds  out  that  it  is  what  she  wanted,  that  she  couldn't 
possibly  live  without  it  :  ougiit  she  then  to  tell  what  she 
got,  that  she  really  didn't  want  it  when  slie  was  getting 
it.  or  ought  she  jiist  to  be  content  because  she's  got  it  ? 


42  THE  WILDERNESS. 

Sir  Harry,  {gravely  turns  and  looks  at  her)  Mabel^ 
will  you  kindly  ring  the  bell  ? 

Mabel.    Why  ? 

Sir  Harry,  I  want  to  send  for  two  doctors,  and  probably 
a,  strait-jacket.  My  brain  has  given  way.  (slie  rises  and 
he  bursts  out  laugliing)  Why,  you  silly  old  girl — what  on 
earth  are  j'ou  driving  at  ? 

Mabel.  Nothing,  (lightly)  I  thought  I  had  a  problem 
to  solve,  but  it  doesn't  seem  to  pan  out.  What  time  is 
Edith  coming  ? 

Sir  Harry.  Not  yet.  Come  back.  I  didn't  mean  to  be 
a  brute — what's  the  problem,  old  lady  ?  {she  doesn't  move 
till  he  says  very  tenderly)  Won't  you  comeV  {she  conies-^ 
hack  and  sits  on  the  floor  beside  liini)  That's  right.  Now 
then,  say  it  all  over  again  right  from  the  beginning,  and 
we'll  get  it  straight. 

Mabel.  j»  No.  (s/te  makes  herself  comfortable)  It's  oidy 
that  I  know  of  something  that  happened  once  that  began 
all  wrong — but  tui-ned  out  all  right.  Well,  is  it  right 
going  on  being  all  right  when  one  person  in  it  knows  that 
it  wouldn't  be  all  right  if  the  other  people  in  it  knew  that 
when  it  began  it  was  all  wrong  ? 

Sir  Harry.  My  sweetheart.  I  don't  want  to  appear- 
stupid,  but  would  you  mind  writing  it  down  ?  {a pause — 
she  looks  at  him — then  she  bends  over  and  kisses  hinu 
rising  and  leaving  her  hand  resting  on  his  head) 

Mabel.  Its  awfully  hard  to  be — to  be— (.s7/^  falters). 
to  be  so — happy — it  makes  things  difificult!  {then  siid- 
denly  changing  her  tone  and  conversation)  Harry  deai". 
you're  getting  very  tliin  on  the  top. 

Sir  Harry.  That's  occurred  since  Thursday — it  was 
Thursday  your  motlier  came  to  stay,  wasn't  it? 

]\Iabel.     {with.  a.  sigh)     Oh,  yes,  it  was  Thursday. 

Sir  Harry.  There's  a  lot  of  good  in  your  mother — 
misdirected — but  good. 

Mabel.  Misdirected,  but  good.  It's  awfully  funny  to- 
watcii  your  motlier  and  my  mother  togetiier. 

Sir  Harry.     I'm  afraid  they  don't  hit  it  off. 

Mrs.  Buckley  Westox  enters. 

Mrs.  Buckley  Weston.     How  tiresome  children  are  ! 

Sir  Harry,     Your  children,  never. 
I     Mabel.     Are  they  in  bed  ? 

Mrs.  Buckley  Weston.    At  last. 

Sir  Harry.     When  are  j'ou  going  out  ? 

Mrs.  Buckley  Weston,  Shortly  before  nine.  The  car- 
riage is  ordered. 

Sir  Harry.    Oh,  all  right. 


THE  WILDERNESS.  43: 

Mrs.  Buckley  Weston.  Mabel,  it  distresses  rae  veiy 
mucli  to  see  you  in  tliose  dowd}-  frocks. 

Mabel.     I'm  sorry  tliey're  dowdy. 

Sir  Harry.  They'  re  not,  they're  beautiful.  Wliat  on 
earth  would  you  have  her  wear  ? 

Mrs.  Buckley  Weston.  I  iiate  people  to  be  eccentric. 
It's  all  very  well  for  artists  and  that  class  of  people  ;  they 
live  by  it,  but  it's  ridiculous  for  a  married  woman,  witii 
an  assured  position,  to  dress  like  a  schoolgirl  with  nothing 
at  all. 

Sir  Harry.  Does  she  dress  like  a  schoolgirl  ?  I  thinlc 
she  looks  perfect. 

Mrs.  Buckley  Weston.  People  who  didn't  know  might 
think  you'd  married  a  bank  clerk. 

Sir  Harry.    Why — what 

Mabel.  I  dress  as  I  please,  mamma — Harry  likes  it. 
I  like  it.     I  don't  think  other  people  matter. 

Mrs.  Buckley  Weston.  As  a  girl  you  were  very  fond 
of  jesvels,  and  rightly  ;  you  always  made  the  best  of  your- 
self. I'm  sure  you  carried  my  amethysts  superbly.  Now,. 
your  extreme  simplicity  isn't  even  mitigated  by  a  bangle.. 
I  know  it  isn't  because  you  haven't  got  jewels,  because- 
wiiile  you  were  engaged  Harrj'  was  most  lavish. 

Sir  Harry,  By  Jove,  it's  true.  I  confess  I  never 
noticed  it,  but  you  have  never  worn  any  of  those  things^ 
have  you,  Mab? 

Mabel,     (sloidi/)     Not  yet 

Sir  Harry.  Wliy?  D"on"t  you  like  them?  You  did 
then. 

Mabel.  Yes,  I  did  then.  One  of  these  fine  days,  when 
I've  justified  my  existen(?e.  l"ll  make  the  best  of  myself 
again,  and  burst  on  you.  in  all  my  splendor,  or  rather 
your  splendor  ;  till  then,  I'll  just  be  myself,  if  you  don't 
mind,  mamma. 

Sir  Harry,  {looks  at  her  curloushj)  Is  anything  the 
matter '? 

Mabel,  {quietly)  No,  Harry — no — no — only  mamma 
rubs  me  the  wrong  way — and — and  I'm  rather  a  cat  this 
evening. 

Mrs.  Buckley  Weston.  {looking  at  her  critioxilhj} 
Wlio  makes  those  dreadful  gowns? 

3Iabel.     I  make  these  dreadful  gowns. 

Sir  Harry,     {surprised)    You  do — gracious — why? 

Mabel.  I  always  used  to  at  home — and — I  didn't  see- 
wliy  I  sliould  change. 

Mrs.  Buckley  Weston.     You  used  to  hale  it  then. 

Mabel.     Well,  I  like  it  now. 

Mrs.  Buckley  Weston.  Of  course,  marriage  makes  a, 
difference  to  a  girl,  but  it  has  no  right  to  make  such  a 
difference  as  tiiat. 


44  THE  WILDERNESS. 

Mabel.  Lots  of  things  make  a  diflference  that  have  no 
riglit  to  make  a  difference. 

Mrs.  Buckley  Westox.  I  call  it  a  little  ungracious  to 
Harry.  He'd  naturally  like  j-ou  to  be  smartly  gowned — 
but  no— you  jnake  yourself  a — I  can  only  call  it  a  pinafore 
— I  don't  mind  that,  but  j'ou-wear  it — that's  the  mistake. 

Mabel.  That  will  do.  mamma,  suppose  you  keep  quite 
still  and  read  your  paper  till  the  carriage  is  round.  I'm 
feeling  a  little  aggressive  this  evening. 

^IRS.  Buckley  Weston.  You  alwavs  were  an  odd  child, 
Mill). 

Sir  Harry.  That  is  her  chief  charm.  Bless  you,  my 
sweetheart.  (a)id  he,  as  lie  jx/s.sfs,  takes  her  Jiancl  and 
2)resses  it  lovingly.  SJie  sighs,  goes  to  the  fire  and  sits 
down)  I  heard  the  bell,  it's  the  Graemes,  1  expect.  I'll 
go  down,  we'd  better  have  our  chat  in  the  study.  We 
shan't  be  long,  dear.     I'll  bring  'em  up  before  they  go. 

31  ABEL.     Very  well ! 

Sir  Harry.     By  the  way,  where's  mother  ? 

3Irs.  Buckley  Weston.  (iritJi-  an  aggressive  sniff) 
She  retired  to  lier  room  immediately  after  dinner  to  write 
letters — she  said  good-night  to  me  as  she  felt  they  would 
occupy  her  until  I  went  to  the  Gordons'. 

Sir  Harry,  {apologetically)  I'm  sure  she  didn't  mean 
it  that  way. 

jMrs.  Buckley  W^eston.     (blandly)    What  way? 

Mabel,  {aside  to  Sir  Harry)  Be  quiet — mamma 
never  sees  your  motlier's  meanings. 

Sir  Harry.  Heavens !  I  nearly  explained  'em !  (lie 
iiglifly  touches  his  irife's  cheek  and  goes  cloion  to  the  study) 

Mrs.  Buckley  W^eston.  I  find  Harry's  mother  a  very 
iliflRcult  old  Avoman  to  entertain.  I  supi^ose  at  her  age  the 
intellect  does  become  dim. 

Mabel.  I  daresay  !  {a  long  pause.  jMabel  bends  over 
herifork.  looking  up  noiv  and  then  in  thought  at  the  fire) 

Mrs.  Buckley  W'ESTOX.  I  see  great  changes  in  people. 
(pause)  You  are  not  nearly  as  chatty  and  light-hearted 
us  you  used  to  be. 

rilABEL.     Really  ! 

3Irs.  Buckley  Weston.  I  suppose  that's  always  the 
Avay  wlien  one  has  everything  one  wants. 

IMabel.     And  knows  all  the  time  one  doesn't  deserve  it ! 

Mrs.  Buckley  Weston.  Unless  you  have  been  singu- 
larly secretive  you  liave  done  nothing  to  make  you  un- 
worthy of  anything. 

Mabel.  Haven't!?  («  pcn^sc)  I've  lied,  I've  cheated, 
I've  tricked  a  man  ! 

Mrs.  Buckley  Weston,     (in  horror)    What  man  ? 

Mabel.  I've  only  met  one  man  in  my  life,  and  I  sup- 
l)0se  that's  the  reason  I  cheated  him. 


THE  WILDERNESS.  45- 

Mrs.  Buckley  Westox.     Wlio  is  lie.  pray  ? 

Mabel,  {rising  snddeiili/  and  to.ssiiu/  iter  work  amn/) 
Does  it  matter?  I  tliink  I'd  better  ring.  I  m  sure  the 
carriage  must  be  there  by  nov,\  ^ 

Mrs.  Buckley  Westox.  {luoliincf  of  icatch)  No,  ten 
minutes  yet.  Kindly  explain  this  to  me,  Mabel.  Yovi're 
my  daughter,  and — it's  my  duty  to  see  that  you're  ha])]ty. 

Mabel.  I  have  everytliing  tliat  money  can  buy  and 
other  things  besides — so"  it's  obvious  that  I'm  perfectly 
happy. 

Mrs.  Buckley  Westox.  Your  manner  makes  me  posi- 
tivel.y  cold. 

Mabel.  I  really  wouldn't  alter  your  temperature  on 
my  account,  mamma — it  can't  hel|»  me. 

Mrs.  Buckley  Westox.  But  1  nuist  positively  inter- 
fere. 

Mabel,  (quietly)  No.  please.  Nobodyshall  ever  inter- 
fere in  my  life's  affairs  again.  You've  done  your  duty, 
you  started  me  carefully— on  the  '•  broad,  straight  road 
tiiat  leadetli  to'' — well,  you  know  the  Bible  backwards,  so 
I  needn't  tell  you  where  it  leads. 

J\lRs.  Buckley  Westox.    (liorrijicd)    Mabel! 

Mabel,  Don't  worry.  I've  stopped  walking.  I'm  stand- 
ing still,  thinking  of  a  way  out. 

Mrs.  Buckley  Westox".  I  haven't  the  remotest  idea 
wliat  you're  talking  about,  but  I  almost  fancy  that  you're 
having  a  dig  at  me. 

Mabel.  No,  I  think  I'm  "  having  a  dig,"  as  you  call  it, 
at  myself. 

]Mi{S.  Buckley  Westox.  Why— why — what  have  you 
done":* 

Mabel,  (rising)  What  have  I  done  ?  I've  been  a  fraud. 
You  want  to  know  the  reason  of  many  things — well,  liere 
it  is — quite  quietly.  When  I  think  of  how  we  schemed 
to  trap  him  into  this  marriage — it  gets  on  my  ners'es — it 
— it  makes  me  sick — that's  all — it  makes  me  sick — and— it 
may  likewise  interest  you  to  know  that  I  have  made  up 
my" mind  to  get  straight.  I'm  going  to  tell  him,  manuna. 
I'm  going  to  tell  him  everything.  I  shall  never  be 
honestly  happy  till  I  do. 

]Mrs.  "Buckley  Westox.  (agliast)  You'll  never  be  happy 
if  you  do. 

Mabel.  Do  you  really  think  that?  (fthe  stares  at  her 
mother,  then  flings  from  her  in  despair)  Oh!  what's  tlie 
\\M'  of  asking  you  what  you  really  think — you  never  have 
tliouglit — you  never  will. 

Mrs.  Buckley  Westox.  Wliat  are  you  going  to  lell 
him? 

Mabel.  Everything  that  he  should  have  known  before- 
lie  married  me. 


40  THE  AVILDERNESS. 

Mrs.  Buckley  AVestox.     Ygu  daren't  do  it,  no  womaa 
Mould  be  svich  a  fool. 
31  ABEL..     1  would,      (til c  clock  strikes) 

Servant  enters. 

Servant.    The  carriage  is  at  the  door,  m'm. 

Mrs.  ISucKLEY  Weston.  Thank  you.  {exit  Servant) 
Mabel,  there  are  times  when  I  should  like  to  shake  you. 

Mabel.     I  daresay. 

Mrs.  Buckley  Weston.  If  you  do — this — this  wicked 
thing — I — I  will  positively  never  tlarken  your  doors  again  ! 

Mabel.  I  may  not  have  a  door  to  darken.  You'd  bet- 
ter get  j^our  wraps,  mamma,  Harry  hates  the  horses  to  be 
kept  waiting. 

Mrs.  Buckley  Weston.     I — I"m  going. 

Mabel.  I  wonder  what  he'll  say  when  I  repeat  to  hini 
•  our  conversation  as  to  the  relative  values  of  himself  and 
old  Worburn  as  investnrents.  You  recommended  Woi'burn 
very  highly,  you  may  remember.  Of  course  he  does  own 
half  Park  Lane. 

Mrs.  Buckley  Weston.   You— wicked — wicked  Avoman  ! 

Mabel.  I'm  glad  you  couldn't  convince  me — I'm  glad  I 
drew  the  line  at  AVorburn.  Good-night,  mamma  dear,  I 
hope  you'll  have  a  cheery  evening. 

Mrs.  Buckley  Weston,  {after  a  pause,  during  which 
she  glares  at  her  daughter,  u-Jio  is  still  j^laying)  1 — I  can't 
trust  myself  to  speak  to  you  to-night,  I  will  come  to  your 
room  in  the  morning,  (and.  site  goes  out.  Mabel,  j^laj/s 
on  and  on,  till  at  length  sJie  leans  her  head  forivard  on  the 
music-rest  and  cries  quietlij.  then  after  a  time  she  dries  her 
eyes,  gets  up  and  ivalks  to  the  iciiidoui,  is  going  to  open  the 
shutters,  suddenly  eJianges  her  mind,  goes  quickly  hack  to 
the  piano  and  dashes  into  a  mad  gallop.  The  Servant 
announces  "Mr.  Kennerly") 

Mabel,  (starts  up  in  siuprise)  Jack — back  again? 
(««rf  Jack  Kennerley  enters)  Why — you  are  a  surjirise. 
When  did  you  get  back  ? 

Jack.     This  morning. 

Mabel.  And  came  straight  here  to  see  us — that's  nice 
of  you. 

Jack.  Of  course  I  came  straight  here — what  else  should 
I  do? 

Mabel.     Wasn't  your  mother  glad  you  weren't  killed  ? 

Jack.  I  hope  so.  {ajMuse.  Mabel,  looks  at  him  witJi  a 
smile,  then  draios  in  a  long  breath  and  almost  laughs) 

Mabel.  How  funny  to  look  at  j^ou,  Jack — and — think 
back.  I'm  glad  you've  come — because  you've  come  in  the 
nick  of  time — you — the  only  person  in  the  world  who 
knows  what  I  really  am. 


THE  WILDERNESS.  47 

Jack,  {looking  at  her  curionslij)  What  do  you  mean 
^y  that  ? 

Mabel.     You  remind  me  of  eveiything. 

Jack.     You  only  remind  me  of  yourselfo 

Mabel,     (meeting  Ms  glance)     How? 

Jack.     Memories. 

Mabel,     Have  you  memories  ? 

Jack.     Yes — one  must  live. 

3IABEL.     Life's  easier  without  them. 

Jack.     Life  wouldn't  be  worth  having  without  them. 

Mabel.  I  don't  think  we  look  at  life  from  the  same 
point  of  view,  {slieviovesaivaji  to  the  piano  and  plays — 
<iftei'  a  jianse  he  goes  to  the  other  sideof  the  piano  and  leans 
4)11  it  u-atching  her,  then  he  says) 

Jack.     Well.  Mai) ! 

Mabel,     (not  looking  tip)     Well,  Jack! 

Jack.     Lady  Mabel  Milanor. 

Mabel.     Lady  Mabel  Milanor. 

Jack.     Like  to  come  to  the  Aquarium  ? 

Mabel.     No,  thank  you. 

Jack.     Like  to  steal  a  tea  in  Bond  Street  ? 

Mabel.     No.  thank  you. 

Jack.     Bored  ? 

Mabel.     Bored — no.     I  read  about  vour  being  woundeel. 

Jack.    Oh  ! 

Mabel.     Were  you  pleased  ? 

Jack.     It  was  all  beastly  uncomfortable. 

Mabel.     Glad  to  be  back  ? 

Jack.     Very  !     Glad  to  see  you  again,  Mab. 

Mabel.     That's  very  nice  of  you. 

Jack.  I — I've  often  tliought  of  how — and — and  where 
Ave  should  meet  again. 

Mabel.     Have  you  ? 

Jack.  Yovi  remember  you  told  me  I  was  to  dine  witli 
you  often  to — to  cheer  you  up  ? 

Mabel.     Yes,  I  remember. 

Jack.     Perhaps  you  don't  want  cheering  up  : 

Mabel.  I  don't — in  the  sense  that  I  thought  I  should 
liave  wanted  it  then.  You're  looking  very  brown  and  well, 
Jack. 

Jack.  I'm  splendid — and — and — Mab,  marriage  hasn't 
spoilt  you — you — you  look  ripping  I 

Mabel,     (pleased)     Do  I "? 

Jack.     Where  is  your  lord  and  master? 

Mabel,  (smiling)  My  lord  and  master  is  with  Mrs. 
Hugh  and  her  liusband  in  the  study. 

Jack.  The  king  Avas  in  his  covuiting-liouse  counting  out 
his  money — tlie  queen  was — Mab,  I'm  awfully  glad  to  see 
you  again — aren't  you  glad  to  see  me  ? 

Mabel.     Of  course  I  am,  Jack. 


48  THE  WILDERNESS. 

Jack.    Then  sliake  hands  with  me  properly. 

Mabel,  (looks  at  him)  I  did.  {he  drops  his  hand  a 
little  dashed.  Another  pause,  she  still  playing,  he  ^catching- 
her) 

Jack.     Well — tell  me  things. 

Mabel.     Wliat  sort  of  things  ? 

Jack.     I  haven't  seen  you  since  your  marriage. 

Mabel.     No. 

Jack.     Well  ? 

Mabel.     Well— what  ? 

Jack.  Are  you  satisfied  ?  Has  the  scheme  worked 
well? 

IMabel.     Yes,  thank  you.  very  well. 

Jack.     You've  been  married — how  long  is  it  ? 

Mabel.     Long  enough. 

Jack.     Already  ? 

Mabel.     I  don't  mean  it  that  way.     {a  pause) 

Jack.     And  you  are  perfectly  happy? 

Mabel.     Oh,  no,  I'm  not. 

Jack.     Why  aren't  you  ? 

Mabel.     Because  I  don't  deserve  to  be,  I  suppose. 

Jack.  It  isn't  our  fault — it's  the  rotten  state  of  society.- 
I'm  sorry  you're  not  happy — and — yet  somehow  I'm 
glad. 

Mabel.     That's  friendly  of  you. 

Jack.  I  can't  help  it — I  always  said  what  I  meant,  to 
you.  {going  nearer  her)  Mab,  it's  been  awful  out  there, 
thinking  of  you  as — as  some  one  else's  wife. 

jNIabel.  (looking  up  at  h  im  swiftly)  W^hat  ? —  (a  pa  use)' 
Oh — really — has  it  ? 

Jack.     I  see  what  a  fool  I  made  of  mj'self  that  daj'. 

Mabel.     Do  you  ? — that's  a  good  thing,     {a pause) 

Jack.     Are  you  fearfully  busy  ? 

Mabel.    What  do  you  mean  ? 

Jack.  I  mean,  can  you  get  out — away  at  all — can  w& 
have — {he  laughs  a,  little  awku-ardly)  Well — there's  Bond 
Street,  and  tlie  A(piarium,  you  know. 

Mabel.  I  think  I've  passed  that,  Jack,  I've  been  learn- 
ing things. 

Jack.  Well — now  take  a  holiday — get  away  from  all 
"  learning,"  let's  have  a  day  out — shake  a  loose  leg. 

IMabel.  I  tell  you,  I've  been  learning  tilings,  {site  looks 
at  him)  What  a  child  you  are,  Jack!  you're  as  ignorant 
as  mother. 

Jack,     {blankly)     What's  happened? 

JMabel.     The  unforeseen. 

Jack.     Don't  be  a  sphinx,  Mab,  it  doesn't  suit  you. 

Mabel.  Don't  be  inquisitive,  Jack,  you're  not  a 
woman. 

Jack.    I'm  glad  of  that. 


THE  WILDERNESS.  4^ 

Mabel.  Oli,  women  needn't  have  a  bad  time  if  they 
choose  to  be  lionest. 

Jack.     Marriage  lias  changed  3-011. 

JMabel.     ^Marriage  has  taught  me  a  great  deal. 

Jack.     What  ? 

Mabel.     That  there  are  a  great  many  fools  in  the  world. 

Jack.  All  of  them  husbands?  (sJie  stops  in  her plaii- 
ing  and  aguinlooks  up  at  him,  then  says  with  half  a  smile)' 

Mabel.     No — not  all  of  them. 

Jack.     You  mean  that  you  think  I"m  a  fool  too? 

IMabel.     Sometimes. 

Jack.  So  do  I,  but  one  lives  to  repent  one's  folly.  Do 
you  remember  that  day  in  the  woods,  the  day  you  got  en- 
gaged ? 

Mabel.     I  remember. 

Jack.  I  was  a  fool  that  day,  and  I've  never  ceased  to. 
regret  it. 

JMabel.    What  do  you  regret  ? 

Jack.  A  lost  opportunity.  I  loved  you — you — you  loved' 
me  and — and  you  would  have  been  my  wife  now  and  not 
liis.     I've  cursed  myself  for  that  folly  often. 

Mabel.     How  odd  !     I've  blessed  you  for  your  wisdom. 

Jack.  People  have  no  right  to  be  wise  when  love  is  at 
stake.  I  thought  I  was  doing  the  wise  thing  for  you  when 
I  tried  to  kill  our  love. 

Mabel,     (smiles)     Poor  old  Jack  ! 

Jack.  But  life  is  a  poor  thing  without  it,  isn't  it,  Mab? 
Do  j'ou  remember  telling  me  j'ou  didn't  believe  in  it  ? 

JIabel.     Yes ! 

Jack.     But  you  were  wrong,  weren't  you  ? 

AIabel.     Yes,  I  was  wrong. 

Jack.  All  the  riches  in  tlie  Avorld  mean  nothing  along- 
side of  love. 

Mabel.     Nothing  at  all. 

Jack.  I've  dreamed  of  this  talk  with  you  often  and 
often,  while  I've  been  away.  And  now — here  we  .are,  and 
— and  it's  real — and  I  can  hardly  believe  it.  Mab,  you're 
not  as  glad  to  see  me  as  I  thought  you'd  be. 

]\Iabel.  You're  so  different — why — you — you're  almost 
a  stranger.  Jack. 

Jack,     (shortly)     I'm  not  changed. 

IMabel.  Aren't  you  really?  Then  if  you  remember  the 
last  time  we  had  a  serious  talk  together — you  gently  but 
jirmly  declined  to  marry  me,  so  what  do  you  expect  me  t<> 
do  now  that  we  meet  again — fall  into  your  arms  and 
sob? 

Jack.    Well,  not  exactly. 

Mabel.  You're  a  very  amusing  boy.  Jack.  How  long 
does  it  take  a  soldier  to  grow  up  and  be  a  man  ? 

Jack.    What  do  vou  mean  ? 


50  THE  WILDERNESS. 

Mabel.  I  mean  how  long  does  it  take  some  men  to 
learn  common  sense  ? 

Jack.  Common  sense  is  a  curse.  Common  sense  made 
nie  give  you  up.     Common  sense  made  you  marry  Milanor. 

Mabel.  And  still  you  consider  it  a  curse  ?  Did  jou  fall 
in  love  with  any  one  on  the  steamer  ? 

Jack,     {angrihj)     You  know  I  didn't. 

Mabel,     {surprised)     How  do  I? 

Jack.  You  know  there's  only  one  woman  in  the  world 
I  ever  think  of. 

Mabel,  (looks  up  at  him  with  a  smile)  Do  you  mean 
me  ? 

Jack,  {shortly)  Yes.  {she  rises  and  comes  doini  to 
him) 

Mabel.  Jack,  you  and  I  have  known  each  other  since 
we  were  little  children,  {she  holds  out  her  hand,  and 
leads  him  to  arm-chair  by  fire.  Sits  hi))i  down  in  it,  puts 
a  cushion  for  his  head,  then  sits  opposite  to  him — a  p)(tuse) 
Now,  say  that  over  again,  quite  slowly.  There  is  only  one 
woman  in  tiie  world  you  ever  think  of. 

Jack.  There  is  only  one  woman  in  the  world  I  ever 
think  of. 

IMabel.     And  that  woman  is  me  ? 

Jack.     You. 

Mabel.  What  do  you  think  of  me?  How  do  you  think 
of  me  ? 

Jack.     Do  you  want  to  know  ? 

Mabel.  Of  course  I  want  to  know.  Go  on.  I  must 
understand  this  very  thoroughly. 

Jack.  You — well,  I  don't  quite  see  what  you're  driv- 
ing at. 

Mabel.  You  know  me  very  well — and  I  want  to  know 
how  j'ou  think  of  me.  I  want  to  see  how  we  stand. 
When  you  think  of  me,  what  do  you  tliink  of  me  as  ?  As 
I  was  that  day  when  I  stole  off  v.-ithyou  to  the  Aquarium? 
Is  that  how  you  think  of  me? 

Jack.    No. 

Mabel.  As  I  am  now — married  to  Harry  ?  Is  that  how 
30U  think  of  me ? 

Jack.     No. 

Mabel.  As  the  sly,  scheming,  contemptible  husband- 
hunter,  who  laughed  at  love,  and  all  the  real  beauty  of 
life,  because  she  didn't  understand  it? 

Jack.     No,  indeed. 

Mabel.     How  then  ? 

Jack.  I  think  of  the  girl  I  kissed,  that  day  on  the 
mounds,  by  the  fairy  ring. 

Mabel.  I  see.  (a  long  pause)  AVhy  do  you  think  of 
that  ? 

Jack.    Because  I  can't  forget  it.    Can  you  ? 


THE  AVILDERNESS.  51 

Mabel.  No.  (she  gets  serious,  he  eomes  to  lier  and 
takes  her  hands) 

Jack.  IMabel,  wliy  is  it  we  can't  forget  ?  {she  with- 
draifs  her  Juinds  and ptds  them  behind  her) 

Mabel.     Would  you  like  to  know  'i 

Jack.     I  do  kno\v. 

Mabel.  Well !  {Jie  moves  toirards  Iter— site  cliecks  him) 
No,  tliaiik  you,  sit  down  and  tell  me  your  view  of  the 
matter,  and  then  I'll  try  and  tell  j'ou  mine,  {a  pause)  Go 
on,  I'm  listening. 

Jack.  You — ^aren't  \o\x  making  it  rather  difficult  for 
me.  Mab  ? 

Mabel.  Difficult,  how — we  know  each  other  verj'  well, 
•Jack — and — we  want  to  know  each  other  better — don't 
ve  ? 

Jack.     Yes. 

IMabel.  And  I've  got  a  sort  of  a  feeling  that  this  is 
•  either  our  last  meeting  or  our  tirst. 

Jack.     It  can't  be  our  first — we  met  that  day. 

Mabel.  We  weren't  ourselves.  I  remember  trying  to 
•explain  that  to  you  then. 

Jack.  You're  wrong — we  were  ourselves  that  day — 
we've  not  been  quite  ourselves  since. 

Madel.     Oh — what's  the  matter  with  us  now  ? 

Jack.     W^e — we — we're  incomplete  somehow. 

]\IabeL.     Oh,  are  we — what's  to  be  done  about  it  ? 

Jack,  {sloidtj)  Let  us  get  back  to  where  we  were  that 
day. 

Mabel,  (looking  at  him  a  little  puzzled)  You  know 
that  I  am  married  ? 

Jack.     Married,  yes — to  him — but  I  love  you. 

Mabel.     Jack,  are  all  men  like  you  ? 

Jack.     I  liope  not. 

Mabel.  8o  do  I.  Go  on,  I'm  learning  a  great  deal. 
You  loved  me.  Out  of  consideration  for  my  happiness 
you  didn't  marry  me — you  went  away,  and  I  married 
some  one  else.  Now  you've  come  back — and — and  you 
seem  to  have  something  on  your  mind. 

Jack.    I  liave. 

Mabel.     Wliat  ? 

Jack.     1  can't  tell  you  now. 

Mabel.  I — I'm  much  more  learned  in  the  world's  ways 
now  tliau  I  was  when  you  went  away.  Jack,  shall  I  help 
you  out '.'' — you  remember  so  vividly  what  I  was  then — that 
you  feel  justified  in  classifying  nie  now — I  suppose  I  have 
jio  riglit  to  object. 

Jack.     I  don't  understand  that. 

jVIabel.  Let's  get  it  clear.  Well  now — where  do  we 
stand  ?  You  tliink  that  in  reality  you  and  I  belong  to  each 
-otlier,  and  he's  only  an  interloper. 


52  THE  WILDERNESS. 

Jack.  Isn't  he  ?  If  it  hadn't  been  for  him  we  should 
have  been  married. 

Mabel.  Well,  we're  not  married  and  he's  here — a  very 
palpable  fact.  What  do  you  suggest  'i — this  is  very  inter- 
esting. 

Jack.     It's  impossible  to  discuss  it  like  this. 

Mabel.  No,  it  isn't.  Life's  a  very  serious  thing,  Jack, 
and  it's  better  to  talk  tilings  over  thoroughly  before  one 
tries  to  alter  it  to  sviit  oneself.  You  think  we're  iucuui- 
jjlete  ? 

Jack.     We  are  incomplete. 

Mabel,  Well,  of  course  that's  bad.  Now,  how  are  wp  to 
complete  ourselves?  Shall  we  go  away  together  to-niglit 
to  Dieppe — Dieppe  is  tlie  place  people  usually  goto  to  com- 
plete themselves,  isn't  it  V 

Jack.  I'm  only  thinking  of  you.  You  told  me  you- 
were  unhappj'. 

Mabel.  I  know — and — it's  very  kind  of  you.  How 
should  we  put  the  case  to  Harrj^V  We  could — at  least  I 
mean  I  should,  of  course,  leave  a  letter  behind  on  juy  dress- 
ing-table to  explain  that  I  lack  completion,  and  have  left 
everything  I  have  of  value  in  life  that  I  ma,y  seek  it. 
That's  right,  isn't  it — when  wives  leave  their  husbands  they 
always  leave  a  letter  on  their  dressing-table,  don't  they  ? 
It's  a  stiff  railway  fare,  Jack,  and  I've  no  money  ;  have 
you  ? 

Jack.     Stop  this  !     I'm  serious. 

Mabel.  Oh,  we  needn't  go — this  is  his  house — we  could 
stay  here,  but  it  would  be  an  undignified  hole-in-corner 
business— wouldn't  it?  Stand  up,  Jack — look  at  me.  I've 
suggested  the  two  only  possible  methods.  You're  a  man 
of  the  world — our  liappiness — our  future  is  at  stake — which 
do  you  prefer?    Well,  haven't  you  got  anything  to  say  ? 

Jack.     How  can  I  say  anything  when  you  talk  like  this  ? 

Mabel.  How  else  am  I  to  talk — we  want  to  get  this 
thing  straight,  don't  we  ?  We  onghtn't  to  go  on  in  this 
dreadfully  incomplete  state.  What  are  vou  prepared  to- 
do  ? 

Jack.     Anything ! 

Mabel,  (suddenly  with  a  long  breath)  Oh,  my  God. 
liow  you  show  me  to  myself  as  I  might  have  been — but 
for — for  him — you  are  prepared  to  do  anything.  Well, 
there's  one  thing  3'ou've  got  to  do,  and  I  think  the  .sooner 
you  do  it  the  better.  Open  that  door — go  quietly  down- 
stairs— take  your  hat  off  the  hat-rack,  and  sneak  out  into 
the  street.  lEither  our  last  meeting  or  our  first,  Jack — it's 
our  last. 

Jack.    You  don't  mean 


Mabel,     (smiling)     I  mean  that  you  are  the  most  con- 
temptible thing  I  have  ever  had  the  misfortune  to  know,. 


THE  WILDERNESS.  5,'> 

■except  myself.  I'm  not  in  the  least  angry  with  you,  but 
— but  do  go  and  get  your  hat  and  run  back  to  Afiica  as 
quickly  as  ever  you  can.  You've  done  lots  of  very  brave 
things  out  there  I  know — now  go  and  do  a  lot  nioi'e.  and 
your  mother  and  sisters  and  all  the  other  people  wlio  don't 
know  you  will  keep  on  being  fearfully  i)roud  of  j'ou.  and 
vou  and  I  who  know  each  other  will  kee])  the  laugh  ujiour 
sleeves.  Good-bye.  (she  goes  back  to  the  piano  and  re- 
sumes her  playing — Jie  stands  staring  at  her) 

Jack.     You  won't  think  like  this  to-morrow, 

31  ABEL,     (playing)     Won't  I  ? 

Jack,  (moving  to  her  almost  fiercely)  Do  you  think  I 
•don't  know  what  your  life  is  ? 

Mabel.     I'm  sure  you  don't. 

Jack.  You  don't  love  your  liusbaud,  and  to  you  life 
Avithout  love  must  be  hell. 

Mabel.     Do  get  your  hat. 

Jack.  Don't  play  the  fool  with  nie.  I  k)iOW,  you  know 
I  know,  (hoarsely)  Six  months  ago  you  asked  me  to 
marry  you.  It — it  was  impossible,  and  so  j^ou  married 
Milanor.  You're  right,  of  cour?e,  to  hide  your  misery  even 
from  me  ;  but  I  know  what  things  are,  and  I  know  what 
Jiell  must  be  in  your  heart. 

Mabel,  (still  jilayiitg)  Harry  will  be  here  soon.  We 
might  talk  the  hell  in  my  heart  over,  mightn't  we  ?  Three 
heads  are  better  than  two,  even  if  one's  a  husband's. 

Jack.     Perliaps  you'd  like  me  to  read  him  this  letter. 

Mabel.     Wliat  letter  ? 

Jack.  The  letter  you  wrote  me  the  night  you  got  en- 
gaged,    (she  closes  the  piano  icith.  a,  snap  and  rises) 

Mabel.  Tliat  letter!  You've  kept  it  ?  (3  XCK  takes  it 
from  his  pocket)  Give  it  to  me  please,  (she  reads  it.  A 
pause.  She  turns,  looks  at  Jack,  smiles  sadly,  and  says irith 
(t  long  draicn  breath)  I  know  what's  right  now — I'll  give  it 
to  him  to-night — and  tell  him  all. 

Jack.  You'd  give  him  that  letter— j'ou  daren't — why, 
he'd  know  you 

Mabel.  He'd  know  I  didn't  love  him  when  I  married 
him — I  want  him  to  know  it. 

Jack.     Why  V 

Mabel.     Because  I  love  iiiin  now.     (ax>ciuse) 

.Tack.     You  love  him-  -you're  sure  ? 

3Iabel.  (quietly)  I'd  sooner  starve  with  him  in  a  cellar 
than  to  be  the  greatest  queen  in  all  tlie  world. 

Jack.  You  love  him,  Mabel  ?  Mabel,  don't — don't  play 
tlie  fool  about  this — is  it  true? 

^Iabel.     Quite  true. 

.Tack.  Then — then  (a  very  long  pause)  I've  been  a  fool 
— I — I'm  very  sorry — I  beg  your  ]iardon. 

Mabel,     (with  a  bitter  little  laugh  that   is  hcdf  a  sob) 


54  THE  WILDERNESS. 

We've  all  been  fools — worse  than  fools,  at  one  time  or  an- 
other in  our  lives.  I  don't  think  you  need  apologize 
to  me.  {slie  wcdks  up  to  ihe  u'lnclow,  and  he  turns  and 
stai-es  blankly  into  the  fire.     At  last  he  says) 

Jack.  I— I'm  not  good  at  thinking  things  out — but — but, 
Mab— if  3'ou  love  him — and  he— he  loves  you — isn't  it  better 
to  leave  things  as  they  are  V 

Mabel.     No  ! 

Jack,     (sloicly)    Suppose — he 

Mabel.  I  know — {long imnse)  I  know  the  risk — but — 
I'm  going  straight  at  last.  Jack,  you  don"t  know  how — 
how  awful  the  whole  of  nry  life  has  been — I  mean  when  I 
was  quite  young — truth  didn't  seem  to  matter  _  then.  I 
seem  to  have  lived  in  an  atmosphere  of  lies — and  it  was  all 
nice — and  easy — and  pleasant — but  since  I've  married  him 
— I've  somehow  begun  to  imderstand  that  it's  trutli  that 
counts— it's  truth  that  means  life,  Jack — the  otlier  isn't 
real. 

Jack,     {very  earnestly)     Mab,  don't  tell  him. 

Mabel,  {slowly)  I  can't  help  telling  him.  I  want  tO' 
know  that  I  can  love  him  without  being  ashamed. 

Jack.  I  don't  know  what  to  say.  You  must  think  me 
an  awful  cad. 

The  door  opens  and  Mrs.  Graeme  enters  Umqhing,  foUoivcd 
by  her  husband  and  Sir  Harry. 

Mrs.  Graeme.     You've  been  a  perfect  angel,  Harry,  I 

don't How  are  you,  Mr.  Kennerly?  Heavens  !  I  thought 

you  were  in  South  Africa. 

Sir  Harry.  Hallo,  Kennerly — how  are  you  ?  Glad  tO' 
see  you  safe  and 

Jack.     Fairly  sound. 

Sir  Harry.  By  gad  !  Wliat  a  time  you  fellows  must 
have  had.  Jolly  glad  I  wasn't  witii  you.  Sorrj'  we  were 
so  long,  Mab — but  Edith's  notions  of  business  are  nearly 
as  staggering  as  Hugh's. 

Hugh.  Oh,  you've  made  it  clear  now.  It's  all  awfully 
simple— it  was  all  that  "  brought  forward"  business  that 
worried  me. 

Edith.  Poor  dear  old  Hugh.  I'm  afraid  you've  no 
brain.  I  notice  that  men  with  your  stj'le  of  over-developed 
mustache  seldom  have. 

Sir  Harry.  He's  the  only  husband  j^ou've  got,  so  you'd 
much  better  make  the  best  of  him. 

Mabel,  {very  brightly)  Never  mind,  Hugh,  I've  nO' 
brain  either. 

Hugh.     Somehow  I  don't  miss  mine. 

Edith,  (to  Hugh)  Now  if  you'd  married  Mabel — and 
{turning  to  Sir  Harry) — and  yon  liad  married  me  when  I 
suggested  it,  how  well  arranged  it  would  all  have  been  I 


THE  AVILDERNESS.  55 

Sir  Harry.  Beautiful— but  see  ho\v  fond  j-ou  are  of 
Hugli ! 

Edith,  {maid  nri  a  face)  It's  qviite  pathetic,  isn  t  it? 
Hugh  dear,  do  sit  "straight— we're  all  looking  at  you. 

Lady  Milaxor  enters,  reading  a  letter. 

Sir  Harry.     Tliatthe  nine  o'clock  post? 

Lady  M.  Yes.  Only  one,  for  me.  Yours  have  gone  to 
your  study,  Harry.  Mine's  from  Aunt  Gertrude,  and  it 
actually  has  something  in  it.  Your  cousin  Ethel  is  en- 
gaged, Harry. 

Sir  Harry,  {spruirjing  vp)  To  Phil  Lennox — I'm  jolly 
glad. 

Lady  M.  Phil  Lennox  !  don't  be  ridiculous.  Phil  hasn't- 
two  brass  farthings  to  rul)  together. 

Sir  Harry.     (a.stonis])cd)     Then  wlio  else? 

Lady  M.     To  Worburn,  the  great  brewer. 

Sir  Harry,     (horrijied)     Worburn!     T7te  Worburn? 

Lady  M.     There  is  only  one  Worburn. 

Sir  Harry.     But  slie  was  in  love  with  young  Phil  Len- 


nox 


Lady  ]\I.     That  didn't  count. 

Sir  Harry.  What  do  you  mean  ? — engaged  to  Wor- 
burn ! — it — it  can't  be  true. 

Lady  M.  It  is.  All  those  girls  have  been  lucky — haven't 
they  ? — it's  extraordinaiy. 

HuC4H.     How  liave  they  been  luck}'? 

Edith.     In  marrying  so  well. 

HuuH.     Is  it  lucky  to  marry  that  brute  Worburn? 

Edith.  It's  lucky  to  be  in  control  of  that  brute's  mil- 
lions. 

Sir  Harry.  (?(*//o  lias  been  standing  dnmfmnided) 
Ethel,  poor  little  Ethel ! — who  forced  her  into  that  shame? 
(Mabel  listens,  and  watches  Iter  husband  intently  during 
this) 

Lady  Milanor.  Forced  her  ?  Shame  ?  Harry,  you've 
been  at  tliat  poetry  again.  Why,  she  won  him  in  the 
teeth  of  the  opi^osition  of  all  the  marriageable  girls  in  the 
county. 

Sir  Harry.  (breaMng  out  almost  passionately)  I  call  it 
damnable  ;  and  tliere's  something  rotten  in  the  life  and 
morality  of  a  country  that  countenances  sucli  things. 

Lady  Milanor.     My  dear  boy 

Sir  Harry.  There  is — and  I  re]ieat  it's  damnable ! 
Ethel — one  of  the  sweetest,  prettiest,  liap])iest  little  fairy 
cliildren  tliat  ev^r  sent  u])  tlie  sunsliine  of  lier  laugh  to 
heaven — to  be  sold  to  an  old  brute  like  that. 

Lady  Milanor.    Harry  ! 

Sir  Harry.     I  mean  it,  it  makes  my  lilood  l)oiI. 

Lady  IMilanor.     She  did  it  of  her  own  free  will. 


56  THE  AVILDERNES8. 

Edith.  I  saw  the  way  the  land  lay  at  Henlej' — I 
thought  she'd  pull  it  off — she  was  playing  him  beauti- 
fully. 

Sir  Harry.    You  mean  to  say  Ethel 

Lady  Milanor.  How  is  Ethel  different  from  all  other 
marriageable  girls  ? 

Sir  Harry.  If  she  did  this  willingly — then  I  hope  to 
<jrod  she  is  different  from  other  girls. 

Lady  Milanor.    Rubbish ! 

Sir  Harry,  (fiercely)  I  tell  you  that  a  woman  wlio 
marries  a  man  for  his  money  or  position  is  a — is  a — well, 
it's  a  difficult  thing  to  discuss  this  subject  in  a  drawing- 
room,  but  you  know  what  I  mean.  (Jack  Kexnerly  is 
.standing  icUJl  his  back  to  the  fire.  Mabel  /.s  standing  hi/ 
thepiano.  As  Sir  Harry  says  ^/i is  she  turns  icitli  a  sad 
little  smile  and  meets  Jack's  look) 

Edith.    I  think  your  views  are  absurd. 

Sir  Harry.  Merely  because  you  won't  look  at  the  mat- 
ter fairly. 

Edith.  According  to  you  there  isn't  an  honest  woman 
in  the  world. 

Sir  Harry.     Rubbish — there  are  thousands. 

Edith.  But  they  cease  to  be  when  they  marry — tliat's 
so  odd. 

Sir  Harry.  They  don't  when  they  marry  men  tliey 
love. 

Edith.  How  many  women  have  jou  met  who  married 
men  they  loved  ? 

Sir  Harry.    Heaps. 

Edith.  It  would  be  interesting  to  hear  j-ou  name  one 
or  two,  wouldn't  it,  Mab  V 

Mabel,  [turning  away  icitli  a  light  laugh)  I've  never 
thought  about  it. 

Edith.     Do  name  one  or  two,  Harry. 

Sir  Harry.     Well,  there's  my  mother. 

Edith.  Do  you  bear  your  son  out  in  his  statement, 
Lady  Milanor  V 

Lady  Milanor.  My  dear,  I  was  a  parson's  daughter — 
the  middle  one  of  nine.  My  father's  income  never  ex- 
ceeded £240  a  year. 

Edith.  Are  you  answered  ?  (SiR  Harry  sits  down  tcilJi. 
u  shrug  of  despair) 

Hugh,  (sitting  up  and  solemnly  facing  Lady  Milaxok) 
When  you  married  Sir  Robert,  with  luige  rent  rolls,  it 
<licin't  strike  you  that  j'ou  were  selling  yourself,  did  it, 
Lady  ]\Iilanor  ? 

Lady  Milanor.  In  my  young  days  a  girl  never  thought 
of  sucli  things.  My  dear  man,  it's  lier  duty  to  marry  well 
— she  owes  it  to  lierself — to  her  people — and — and  to  any 
family  of  lier  own  that   she  may  happen  to  have  after- 


THE  WILDERNESS.  57 

wards,  {she  turns  to  her  son)  Take  your  own  cnse — 
wliere  would  you  have  been  if  I  hadn't  married  your 
father? 

Edith.     Bah — men  don't  understand  these  things. 

Sir  Harry.  No — and,  thank  God,  some  women  don't 
cither.  Bless  you,  Mab.  (he  Jdsses  her  as  shejMiiscs  him) 
AVe  know  better — don't  we  ? 

Mabel,  (sitting  down  at  the  piano— jjlaying  softly) 
Yes — we  know  better.  (Edith  watches  Mabel  and  is 
■  struck  by  her  face) 

Sir  Harry,  (half  to  liimself)  Ethel— poor  little  Ethel 
—  tlie  dearest  little  thing — oh,  God,  it's  brutal ! 

Hugh,  (slowly  unfolding  himself  fro7n  his  chair)  Well, 
ye  know  I  don't  often  talk,  but  it  seems  to  me  it  don't 
matter  much.  Edie's  often  told  me  she  didn't  give  a  but- 
ton for  me  when  we  married — but  that  don't  amount  to  a 
}ow  of  pins,  because  since  that  day,  don't  ye  see,  I've  grown 
■on  her — and  we  jog  along  in  double  harness — er — swim- 
mingly, don't  we,  Edith  ? 

Edith.    Of  course  we  do. 

Sir  Harry.  Well,  all  I  can  say  is  from  the  man's  f)oint 
■of  view,  sooner  than  have  been  married  for  my  money 
I'd 

Edith,  (lightly  touching  him  on  the  arm)  Change  the 
conversation. 

Sir  Harry,  (laughing)  Yes,  I'll  change  the  conversa- 
tion. I  beg  every bodj-'s  pardon,  I  was  getting  hot,  but 
(sadly)  I  was  very  fond  of  Ethel — look — the  mater,  having 
sliattered  all  my  faith  in  her,  has  calmly  gone  to  sleep. 

Edith.  She's  wiser  than  you,  Harry.  Oh,  ever  so  much 
wiser  tlian  you. 

Lady  Milanor.  (j-ousing  herself)  I  wasn't  asleep,  I 
was  just  remembering  something,  (and  she  leaves  the 
room  hurriedly) 

Sir  Harry.  Well,  I  don't  care  what  any  of  you  say,  I 
stick  to  my  belief,  there  are  real  true,  haiapy,  honest  mar- 
ried people  in  the  world. 

Hugh,  (turning  s^iddenly  to  Jack)  You're  jolly  silent, 
Kennerly,  what  have  you  got  to  say  about  all  this? 

Jack,  (u-ith  a  laugh)  I'm  not  a  married  man,  so  I 
daren't  confess  to  knowing  anything  about  love, 

Edith.     Very  discreet  of  you. 

Jack.  But  I  do  agree  Muth  jMilanor,  there  are  real  true, 
honest,  happy  people  in  the  world.  I've  met  two.  (he 
hows  slightly  to  SiR  Harry  and  Mabel)  Mabel,  if  you'll 
i'orgive  me  I've  got  to  be  off,  the  mater's  rather  seedy,  and 
I  i)romised  I'd  not  keep  her  late,  she  still  waits  up  for  me. 

Sir  Harry,  (rising)  I  say,  now  you're  back,  let's  see 
.something  of  you — can  you  dine  witli  us  to-morrow  ? 

Jack,     (embarrassed)     I  should  be  delighted,  but 


IJS  THE  WILDERNESS. 

Mabel,  {from  piano)  Do,  Jack — it's  onlj'  just  our* 
selves. 

Jack.  Verj'  well — I — I  should  like  to.  {general  fare- 
wells,  and  he  goes) 

Edith.  Well,  we  must  be  moving  too,  if  we're  to  get  ta 
the  Argyles  to-night.     Aren't  you  two  coming  ? 

Mabel.    No  ! 

Sir  Harry.  AVe've  realized  that  there's  more  in  life 
than  dining  out  and  spending  hours  miserably  with  people 
you  don't  care  a  bit  about. 

Edith.     What  is  there  ? 

Sir  Harry.  There  is  home — you  go — we've  been  out  so 
much  we're  taking  a  night  otf  the  treadmill  for  a  cliange. 

Edith.  Well,  it's  been  awfully  sweet  of  you,  Harry,, 
to  put  us  right.  If  Hugh  had  only  had  even  a  little  brain 
I  needn't  have  worried  you.  Good-night,  dear,  {she  kisses 
Mabel) 

Sir  Harry,  You'd  better  leave  the  letters,  Hugh.  I'll 
go  through  'em  more  thoroughly  and  report  on  'em  in  the 
morning. 

Hugh.  Right  j-ou  are  !  {he puts  a  lot  of  loose  letters  o)i 
the  table — on  top  of  Mabel's  letter  to  Jack)  Good-bye,  old 
man,  and  tlianks  awfully.  (Sir  Harry  and  Mabel  wove 
iinth  them  to  the  door.  Sir  Harry  goes  doicnstairs  irith 
them,  and  Mabel  stands  tvatching  for  an  instant,  then 
moves  doicn  to  the  fire) 

MABEii.  "  The  woman  who  marries  a  man  for  money  or 
positior  is  a "    Oh,  why  did  he  say  that  to-niglit  'i 

Sir  Harry'  re-enters  very  cheerfidhj. 

Sir  Harry.  Poor  old  Edith,  she  does  amuse  me — mind 
you,  she's  really  awfully  fond  of  Hugh,  and  I'm  sure  they're 
as  happy  as  kings. 

Mabel.  Despite  the  fact  that  she  didn't  care  for  him 
when  slie  married?  {he  has  gathered  vp  all  the  letters 
Hugh  left,  including  Mabel's  letter  to  Jack) 

Sir  Harry.  Bali ! — she  cared  for  \\\\n  right  enough — 
that's  only  her  pose. 

Mabel.  {sloicUj)  Harry,  there  is  something  I  want  to 
tell  you. 

Sir  Harry,  {looking  vp  in  surjirise)  To  tell  me?- 
(Uncle  Jo  eomes  in) 

Uncle  Jo.  The  jabberers  gone?  {he  makes  himself 
comfortable  by  the  fire) 

Sir  Harry.  Tliey  have,  {still  lookin^  it  his  irife) 
W^hat  do  you  want  to  tell  me? 

Mabel,  {glancing  at  Uncle  Jo)  I — by-and-bye — wlien 
we  are — alone,     {she  goes  ovt  of  the  room) 

Sir  Harry,  {docketing  the  various  letters)  Poor  little- 
Ethel  !    I  can't  get  that  tragedy  out  of  my  mind. 


THE  WILDERNESS.  59. 

Uncle  Jo.    Wliat  tragedj-  ? 

Sir  Harry.     Oli,  only  a  suicide. 

Uncle  Jo.     Some  one  you  knew  ? 

Sir  Harry,  (ven/  sadly)  Yes,  a  dear  little  girl  I  knew. 
(Sir  Harry  is  looking  through  the  letters  wtten  he  stops 
suddenly  and  looks  up)  Now  what  the  devil  lias  this  got 
to  do  with  Edith  ? — it's  Mab's  writing,  {he  reads  it,  then  he 
turns  and  looks  at  his  unele,  tcho  is  smoking  jAacidly 
staring  at  the  fire,  then  he  slou-ly  reads  it  again,  and  after 
a  long pa.nse,  he  says  ivitli  a  little  shake  in  his  voice)  It's 
— it's  a  joke.  (Jo  turns  and  looks  at  him,  he  has  the  en- 
velojie  in  one  hand  and  the  letter  in  another,  and  is  alter- 
nately staring  at  them) 

Uncle  Jo.    Hullo ! 

Sir  Harry,  (lamely)  They're  playing  a  joke  on  me,, 
listen!  {he  reads  the  letter)  "  Dear  Jack  " — It's  to  Ken- 
iierly,  her  cousin  Jack  Kennerly,  you  know.  "  Dear  Jack,. 
I  promised  to  tell  you  the  result  of  the  hunt — the  wheel 
lias  come  full  circle — I  am  there — we  are  to  be  married  in 
February — so,  lam  to  rule  in  Chesterfield  Street,  and  play 
Lady  Bountiful  at  Fawn  Court.  Well,  I  worked  hard  for 
it,  and  I've  got  it  all.  It  may  amuse  you  to  know  that  I 
am  thoroughly  ashamed  of  myself,  and  more  miserable 
than  I've  ever  been  in  my  life — it  would  be  a  great  relief 
to  tell  him  all  alxnit  it,  and  ask  him  to  kindly  buy  some 
one  else. — Yours,  Mabel.     P.S. — Burn  this."'     {a  longptause)' 

Uncle  Jo.     Practical  jokes  of  that  sort  are  very  silly. 

Sir  Harry.  Very  silly.  (Sir  Harry  sits  motionless, 
staring  out  '  1  front  of  him.  Uncle  Jo  watches  him  un- 
easily) 

Uncle  Jo.    AYho  wrote  the  stuff  ? 

Sir  Harry.     She  did. 

Uncle  Jo.  I  don't  believe  it — she  doesn't  play  tricks 
like  that. 

Sir  Harry,  {quite  motionless)  It — it — isn't  like  her, 
is  it,  but — but  she  has. 

Uncle  Jo.  {crossing  to  him)  Let  me  see.  {he  takes  it) 
Where  did  you  find  it  V 

Sir  Harry.  Among  Edith's  papers — don't  say  anything 
about  it — we — we'll  pretend  we  haven't  read  it,  and  then 
the  laugh  will  be  upon  our  side,  won't  it  V  (Uncle  Jo  is 
turning  over  the  letter,  then  on  the  envelope  something  strikes 
him) 

Uncle  Jo.    The  Borcambe  postmark. 

Sir  Harry.    I  saw. 

Uncle  Jo.  Date,  June  the  second— wlij',  that  was  the- 
very  day 

Sir  Harry,  {very  sloidy — half  to  himself)  The  very 
day  we  met  by  the  fairies'  ring — the  very  day  we — slie 
wrote  it  that  night — she — the  very  day  we •    {then  almost, 


00  THE  WILDERNESS. 

fiercchi)  No — no — don't  Iffs  jump  to  conclusions — let's 
tliiiik  it  over — quietly — quite  quietly,  (a  long  pause)  It — 
it  can't  be  true — it — it  isn't  possible — why — why — I  re- 
lueiaber  everything  she  said — and  just  how  she  looked 
wlieu  she  said  it.  Why — wiiy — siie  held  out  her  arms  to 
me — and  said — Harry — Harry — if  you  were  starving  I'd 
marry  you  to-morrow.  It — it  couldn't  have  been  a  lie — ■ 
she — she  wouldn't  have  lied  to  me  then — like  tliat.  Oli, 
no — it  isn't  true — of  course  it  isn't  true.  Wliere's  tlie 
letter  ?  (he  rises,  jJicliS  it  up.  Then  he  sinks  hack  into  his 
chair  again,  and  sits  sileyit.  Tlien  lie  trliispers — almost  to 
himself)  I  remember  her  last  words  to  him — "I'll  write 
to  you — 3'ou  ought  to  get  the  letter  in  two  days  " — and — 

and — is  this  what  she  promised  to  write (a  lonrj  pause 

— vhile  he  stares  at  the  letter) 

Uncle  Jo.     How  did  it  get  here  anyhow  ? 

Sir  Harry.  He  must  have  brought  it  back  to  lier  to- 
night. He  wanted  to  marry  her — she  refused  him  the  day 
she  accepted  me.  and — and  Etliel  loved  Lennox  and  mar- 
ried Worburii.  "  How  is  Ethel  different  fioni  other  mar- 
riageable girls  ?  " — my  motlier  said  that.  (Uncle  Jo  moves 
a  little  towards  him)  No.  no — give  me  time.  Uncle  Jo.  I 
— I've  got  to  think  this  out.  {and  he  buries  his  head  on 
his  folded  arms.  There's  a  long  pause,  and  nometliing  ver>/ 
like  a  sob  is  heard.  Uncle  Jo  goes  to  him  quickly,  almost 
■angrily) 

Uncle  Jo.  Come,  come — don't  be  a  fool,  man — if  she 
did  write  it  slie  didn't  mean  it,  and  what  matter  if  she  did 
mean  it  then,  she  knows  a  damn  sight  better  now  !  Come, 
come,  I  shouldn't  give  it  another  thought  if  I  were  J'ou. 

Sir  Harry,  (lifting  a  haggard  face — says  hoarsely) 
Seven  months  of  it — how  she  must  loathe  me  ! — Oli,  God, 
wliat  a  cur  I  feel ! 

Uncle  Jo.  (looking  at  him  in  amazement)  You! 
What  liave  you  done  "/ 

Sir  Harry.  Robbed  lier  of  everything — her  youth — lier 
love — her  purity — robbed  her  of  heaven  and  shut  her  up  in 
liell — oh,  wliy  didn't  she  tell  me?  I  wouldn't  have  done 
it — I  didn't  know — how  could  I  know'?  Why  didn't  she 
tell  me — why  didn't  she  tell  me? 

Uncle  Jo.     If  any  one  is  to  blame  she  is. 

Sir  Harry.  Don't !  She  wns  a  cliikl — slie  didn't  un- 
derstand, (he  starts  from  his  chair  and  icalks  raindly  to 
and  fro,  thinking.  Then  sialdody  lie  breaks  out  fiercely 
again)  I  won't  believe  it — it's  humanly  impossible — all 
her  life  witli  me  can't  liave  been  a  piece  of  acting — it  can't 
have  been  a  lie.  She  couldn't  have  kept  it  up,  day  and 
jiight,  night  and  day,  for  seven  months,  (he  stops,  listen- 
ing intently,  hearing  her  footfall.  Thenhe  turns  almost 
})iti fully  to  his  uncle,  and  n-his2-)ers)     She's  coming — watch 


THE  WILDERNESS.  GI 

her — watch  her — it  can't  be  all  a  lie.  (^Iaeel  enters  quictJ;/, 
humming  softly  to  herself.  The  tiro  men,  appeal'  absorbed, 
but  are  in  reality  ivatchiiig  her.  HJie  is  looking  about  her 
furtively  for  the  letter.  She  sees  it  and  jncks  it  up.  Sir 
PIauky,  not  looking  vji,  sjjcaks  unconcernedly)  Wliafs 
that? 

Mabel,  Nothing  of  importance — an  old  letter,  {there's 
a  2)ause)     I — am  I  in  the  way  ? 

Sir  Harry.  No.  (another  pause.  Something  in  his 
face  disturbs  her,  and  she  moves  towards  him) 

Mabel.  Harry  dear — you're  looking  so  tired.  Uncle  Jo. 
don't  make  him  work  any  more  to-nigiit.  (softly)  I'll 
come  back  again  when  he  has  gone,     (and  she  goes  out) 

Sir  Harry,  (verij  slou-ly)  Poor  little  girl!  poor  little 
girl!  Did  you  see?  did  you  see?  You  heard  what  she 
said  about  the  letter,  and  how  she  said  it.  If  we  hadn't 
known — we  should  never  have  suspected  anything.  Lies 
— lies — lies — and  I'ju  the  cause  of  them.  I  have  made 
truth  impossible. 

Uncle  .Jo.     I  don't  see  that  she's  to  be  pitied. 

Sir  Harry.  Don't  you':'  If  tlie  prospect  of  marriage 
Avitii  me  made  her  "more  miserable  than  she'd  ever  been 
in  her  life" — what  must  it  be  for  her  now  that  we're  mar- 
ried and  she  can't  escape  me  niglit  or  day  V 

Uncle  Jo.  You're  making  a  mountain  out  of  a  molehill 
— girls  get  accustomed  to  anything. 

Sir  Harry.     Not  to  the  kisses  of  a  man  they  hate. 

Uncle  Jo.  Rubbisli  !  Now,  look  here,  forget  all  about 
that  damned  letter — look  at  it  from  a  sensible  man's  point. 
You  wanted  her — 3^ou've  got  her — she's  made  you  as  hajijjv 
us  a  king — and  what  more  can  u  man  expect  from  a 
woman '? 

Sir  Harry.     A  great  deal. 

Uncle  Jo.  It's  unreasonable.  I'm  sure  she  makes  an 
admirable  wife. 

Sir  Harry,  (icith  a  passionate  outburst,  striking  the 
table  with  his  fist)  Makes  an  admirable  wife — what  a  foul 
j)hrase — that's  it — she's  been  an  admirable  wife  ;  gentle, 
uncomplaining,  submissive,  she's  laughed  when  I  laughed, 
sighed  when  I  sighed — danced  to  me,  sung  to  me — fed  me 
and  kept  me  comfortable — soothed  my  body — and  satisfied 
my  mind.  Oh,  the  bargain  has  been  honestl.y  fulfilled.  I 
give  her  money  and  position — she  gives  up  herself,  in  com- 
]ilete  surrender — this  has  gone  on  for  seven  months.  Uncle 
Jo,  would  you  like  to  speculate  how  often,  during  tiiese 
seven  months,  a  longing  has  come  over  her  to  kill  either- 
herself  or  me? 

Uncle  Jo.  You're  talking  damn  nonsense.  Here  you 
are,  the  pair  of  you — you've  made  a  beautiful  home 

Sir  Harry,     (interrupting)     Oh  no — we've  never  had 


-02  THE  WILDERNESS. 

a  home.  It's  been  a  stable  for  me — a  prison  for  lier.  (lie 
rises  and  goes  to  tlie  firepUice  and  rings  the  hell) 

Uncle  Jo.  You — you'll  think  differently  in  the  morn- 
ing, when  you've  cooled  down. 

Sir  Harry.  AVe'lI  see — I  don"t  think  I"m  excited — I'nx 
numbed — that's  all.  {a pause — he  goes  haeJc  to  the  table — 
then  he  suddenly  shudders  andf  drops  his  Jieadon  his  Jiands) 
The  past  conies  over  me  in  waves  and  makes  me  sick,  {a 
Man  Servant  enters)  Pack  some  things  for  me,  will  you  ? 
— I — I  shall  be  away  some  days,  (Man  Servant  boics  and 
goes  aicaij  again) 

Uncle  Jo.     You're  going? 

Sir  Harry.     Of  course  I'm  going. 

Uncle  Jo.     Without  speaking  to  her  ? 

Sir  Harry.  I— I'll  write— I— I  couldn't  speak  to  her  of 
this.  T  couldn't — man.  don't  you  understand,  I  love  her 
more  than  anything  in  all  the  wide,  wide  world  !  {and 
with  a  drij  choking  sob,  he  turns  his  back  and  tvalksto  the 
far  corner  of  the  room.  There's  a  j^ause.  Then  he  conies 
back  and  resumes  his  seat  at  the  table.  Uncle  Jo  ivatches 
liini  anxiously) 

Uncle  Jo.     Don't  do  anything  foolish. 

Sir  Harry.    I  won't ! 

Uncle  Jo.     What  do  you  mean  to  do  ? 

Sir  Harry,  (slowly)  Nothing— at  least,  nothing  that 
matters  to  anybody  except  myself.  (Mabel  comes  in- 
quietly  and  says  reproachfully.) 

Mabel.  Oh,  Harry — still  working  !  (Uncle  Jo  grunts 
— she  goes  to  the  i^iano  and  plays  softly) 

Sir  Harry,  (to  his  nncle)  Go — go — I — I'll  try  and  speak 
to  her  now.  (Uncle  Jo  goes  quietly  out  of  the  room,  and 
Mabel pZa?/s  on) 

Mabel.  Harry,  I  want  you  to  be  very  gentle  with  me — 
it's  very  difficult  to  tell  you — and — and  I  don't  know  if  j'ou 
will  be  able  to  imderstand.  (he  is  not  looking  at  her,  nor 
she  at  him)  Do  you  remember — that  day,  in  Bond  Street, 
sa.ying  tome,"  Come  out  of  the  wilderness  into  the  light"  ? 

Sir  Harry.    Yes. 

Mabel.  I  pretended  to  understand  j'ou — it  was  a  lie  ! 
(Sir  Harry  looks  ?(p  startled)  That  day  in  the  woods — 
when  you  asked  me  to  marry,  you — and — and  I  said  I'd 
marry  you  if  you  were  starving — it — it  was  the  truth,  and 
yet  it  was  half  a  lie  then. 

Sir  Harry,  (he  turns  toivards  her  wearily)  I  don't 
understand  ! 

Mabel.  Don't  look  at  me,  Harry — you'll  never  care  for 
me  again — after  what  I've  got  to  tell  you — at  least  I  hope 
some  day  you  will — but — but  it's  bound  to  be  a  long  time. 
(all  the  time  sJie  jjlays  and  he  stands  by  his  table  listening) 
I  was  told  to  marry  you,  I  made  up  my  mind  to  marry 


THE  WILDERNESS.  03 

you,  and  I — 1  thought  it  all  out.  That  day  by  the  fairies' 
ring — wlien  you  came  I  didn't  love  you,  I  thought  I  loved 
some  one  else,  he — he  had  kissed  me — and  I  didn't  know — 
hut  before  that  I  liad  laid  plans  to  marry  you — tiien  when 
he  kissed  me — I — I  wanted  to  marry  him.  That's  wliero 
I  was  such  a  fool,  but  he  wouldn't,  so  it  was  all  all  right — 
and  so  I — I  married  you.  This  letter,  it's  to  Jack.  1  wr^te 
it  tlie  day  we  got  engaged — it  tells  how  I'd  won  you — I'd 
sold  myself  and  that  I  knew  I  was  a  beast — that's  all. 

Sir  Harry,     {very  sadly)     If  you'd  only  told  me  before  ! 

IMabel.     I  was  a  coward  and  afraid. 

Sir  Harry.  I  would  have  gone  away  ages  ago.  and 
then  it  wouldn't  have  been  so  bad.  {she  looks  swiftly  at 
liim — appealing.  Then  her  head  droops  a  little.  A  pause) 
Well,  it's  no  good  crying  over  spilt  milk — we  can't  undotlie 
past — but— but — we'll  tliink  of  the  future,  {he  turns  to  her 
nu'tJi  a  look  of  infinite  tenderness)  You're  very  young — - 
just  nineteen,  aren't  you  V  It  will  be  better  after  I've 
gone  away. 

Mabel.    You'll  go  away  ? 

Sir  Harry.     I'll  go  to-night. 

Mabel,  {shivers  a  little  and  turns  sadly  from  Jiiin) 
I — I  thought  you  would  if  I  told  j'ou. 

Sir  Harry.     Then  you  do  understand  me  a  little  ? 

Mabel,  {looking  at  him  sadly)  A  little,  yes.  {then she 
turns  from  him  and  sits  listless,  and  there  is  a  silence.  At 
■last  she  asks  him  almost  pitifully)     What  shall  J  do  ? 

Sir  Harry.     I  don't  know — what  do  j'ou  want  to  do? 

Mabel.     WJiatever  you  wish. 

Sir  Harry,  {shrinking)  Don't  talk  like  that — tliafs 
finished — you — j-ou're  free. 

3Iabel.  {icistfully)  Won't  you  let  me  do  what  you'd 
like  me  to  do  ? 

Sir  Harry,  {bitterly)  Don't — don't — our  bargain's 
over — I'm  not  your  owner  now. 

]Mabel.     Harry  !     {then  he  breaks  out  almost  fiercely) 

Sir  Harry.  Be  fair  to  me  !  I've  spoilt  your  life,  I 
know — but  it  wasn't  my  fault — nobody  told  me — I  loved 
you.  I  meant  no  harm — be  fair  to  me.  {then  he  stojjs) 
I'm  sorry — I  didn't  mean  to  break  out  like  tliat.  {a  long 
pause)  I've  thought  it  all  out — there's  only  one  tiling  to 
be  done.  I — I'll  go  away  and — and  then,  soon,  you  will  be 
quite  free. 

Mabel,  {looks  at  him  puzzled)  Free? — I — free  of  you? — 
I  don't  understand. 

Sir  Harry,  (icitli  a  bitter  laugh)  Great  happiness 
takes  time  to  realize. 

Mabel,     {shrinking)     Harry  ! 

Sir  Harry.  Don't  mind  what  I  say — I'm  not  quite 
myself,     {he  laughs  a  little)     You  see — you — you've  hit  me 


64  THE  AVILDERNESS. 

rather  liard — and — and  I  was  very  fond  of  you — Tvef 
always  tried  to  do  my  best  for  you.  I"ni  going  to  do  all  I 
can  for  you  now. 

Mabel.     How  do  you  help  nie  by  going  away  ? 

Sir  Harry.     You'll  know  soon — but  afterwards (her 

iiiDis  and  faces  her)  I  don't  care  who  he  is,  or  what  he  is, 
he'll  never  love  you  as — as  I  have  loved  you — good-b3'e. 
{avcl  lie  turns  to  leave  the  room — she  rises  u-ith  a  cry) 

Mabel.  No,  no — not  yet — not  yet — Harry,  you're  very 
hard — my  fault — I've  made  you  hard — wait  a  minute — oii, 
do  wait  a  minute — I {a  pause,  he  comes  down  to  her) 

Sir  Harry.     Well  ? 

Mabel.  Wlien — when  you've  gone— after  a  time — time 
is  a  wonderful  thing,  Harr}',  and — it  might  even  make 
things  seem  different  to  5-ou.  If  it  should  and  3'ou  should 
remember  me — and  what  we've  been  to  each  other — do- 
you  think  you'd  ever  ask  me  to  come  home  ";' 

Sir  Harry.     What  do  you  mean  ? 

Mabel.     Only  that  I {she  falters — he  stares  at  hcr^ 

then  moves  quicJdi/  towards  her) 

Sir  Harry.  You  said — ask  j^ou  to  come  home — home — 
where  ? 

Mabel.^  I've  only  known  one  home,  that's  ours.  (iJtcn 
jKissionately)  I  didn't  mean  to  ask  you  this — I  thought  I 
could  be  brave — but,  oh,  it's  so  hard  to  be  brave.  I'm  not 
asking  favors  of  you.  I  don't  want  you  to  be  good  to  me — 
but,  later  on  when  you  think  of  me — and  I  know  you'll 
have  to  think  of  me — think  of  me  as  I've  been  these  last 
few  months,  because  that's  me,  don't  think  of  me  as  I  was. 
when  we  were  first  engaged,  because  I — I  was  different 
then,  I  didn't  know,  (his  eyes  on  hers — Ids  voice  strained 
ivith  excitement) 

Sir  Harry.  You — what  are  you  saying  ?  What  do  you 
mean  ? 

Mabel.  I  can't  help  it — don't  be  hard  on  me.  Oh, 
Harry,  Harry,  let  me  think  that — some  day  you'll  writo 
to  me — come  to  me — send  for  me — let  me  come  home 
again. 

Sir  Harry,  {tossing  hack  his  head  with  a  glad,  sltont) 
Great  God — you  don't  know  what  you've  done,  {he  rings' 
the  bell  violently)  You've  pulled  us  out  of  the  fire — my 
dear — oh,  my  dear,  I  was  going  to  make  such  a  fool  of 
myself,  {the  Man  Servant  enters,  folloived  by  Uncle. 
Jo)    Have  yon  packed  ? 

Servant.     Nearly,  Sir  Harry. 

Sir  Harry.     Then  unpack  and  be  damned  to  you. 

Uncle  Jo.     {amazed)     What  the 

Sir  Harry.  Go  away  !  Go  away  !— we  don't  want 
you — go  away  !  {he  holds  out  his  arms  to  his  wife)  My 
dear.    Oh,  my  dear.  .       _        .    ,  .^ 


THE  WILDERNESS.  G5 

Mabel.  Harry  !  (she  stands  bewildered  for  an  instant 
— then  realizing  the  truth,  she  goes  to  him  with  a  sob) 

Sir  Harry.  {holding  her  tightly  in  his  arms,  half 
laughing  and  half  crying)  Out  of  the  wilderness  into  the 
light  at  last  ! 


THE  END. 


WHEN  WE  WERE 
TWENTY-ONE 


Comers  in  ifour  Bets 


BY 


H.  V.  ESMOND 


Copyright,  1903,  by  Samuel  French 


^/: 


'  l.€^  JtyJ 


A  £ 


u:^■ti^^ 


Caution  : — Amateurs  are  hereby  notified  that  this  play  is  fully  copyrighted 
under  the  existing  laws  of  the  United  States  Government,  and  they  are  not 
allowed  to  produce  this  play  without  first  having  obtained  permission 
from  Samuel  French,  24  West  22d  Street,  New  York  City,  U.S.  A. 


New  York 
SAMUEL  FRENCH 

PUBLISHER 

26  WEST  22D  STREET 


London 
SAMUEL  FRENCH,  Ltd. 

PUBLISHERS 

89  STRAND 


WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE. 


Performed  at  the  Comedy  Theatre,  London,  Sept.  2,  1901. 

CHARACTERS. 

Richard  Carewe Mr.  Nat  Goodwin 

Sib  Horace  Plumely,  Baet.   (commonly  called  Wad- 
dles ) Mr.   Neil   O'Brien 

Colonel  Miles  Grahame   (the  Soldier  Man) 

Mr.  J.  R.  Crawford 

Teerence  McGrath  (the  Doctor) Mr.  F.  H.  Tyler 

Richard  Teerence  Miles  Audaine  (the  Imp.) 

Mr.  Arnold  Daly 

Herbert  Coerie Mr.  Fred  Tiden 

David  Hirsch Mr.  Bassett  Roe 

Hughie  Helmont Mr.  Ernest  Lawf ord 

Wallis  Brundalll Mr.  Ivo  Dawson 

Mrs.  Ericson Miss  Ingram 

Phyllis  (her  daughter Miss  Maxine  Elliott 

Kara  Glynesk   (known  as  the  Firefly) 

Miss  Constance  Collier 

Budgie  Culpepper 

Babette  (Kara's  Maid) 

2 


WHEN  WE  WEEE  TWENTY-ONE. 


ACT    I. 


Scene. — Dick  Carew's  room  in  his  flat  in  Clement's 
Inn.  A  man's  room.  Old-fashioned,  comfortable 
chairs,  with  the  leather  well-worn.  On  the  r.  side 
of  the  room  a  big  fire-place  with  fender  seat  all  round 
it.  The  wall  is  nearly  entirely  book-cases.  The 
hangings  are  dark  red.  The  over-mantel  is  old  black 
oak,  also  the  old-fashioned  bureau,  which  is  down  l. 
against  the  wall.  There  is  a  deep,  comfortable  Ches- 
terfield sofa  above  the  fire-place,  and  a  comfortable 
arm'Chair  below  it,  facing  up  stage.  There  is  a  door 
down  B.  of  the  fire-place,  and  a  door  l.  c.  at  back, 
which  opens  into  the  hall — showing  the  hall — hat- 
racks,  coats,  etc.,  and  the  hall  door,  which  opens  on  to 
the  staircase  of  the  building.  There  is  a  large  win- 
dow opposite  the  fire-place  with  a  very  crooked  blind. 
A  card-table  is  set  out  between  the  ivindow  and  the 
fire-place,  a  little  l.  of  the  centre,  beloiv  it  is  a  smaller 
table,  with  a  half-empty,  old-fashioned  whiskey  decan- 
ter, five  glasses,  and  numerous  syphons  of  soda-aoater 
— both  on  and  under  the  table.  Various  ash-trays, 
pipes,  and  cigar-ends  about — also  packs  of  cards.  The 
room  has  evidently  just  been  the  scene  of  a  card 
party.  The  door  is  open  that  leads  to  the  hall,  and 
through  it  comes  the  sound  of  men's  voices  and  laugh- 
ter. A  moment  after  the  curtain  rises,  Mrs.  Ericson 
comes  in  from  the  door,  dotvn  r.  She  is  a  sweet- 
looking,  fragile  old  lady.  She  gives  a  little  ejacula- 
tion of  dismay.  * 

Mrs.   E.     Oh,  my  dear — the  smoke.      Phyllis,   dearie, 
come  and  help  me  to  open  the  window. 

3 


4:  WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE. 

(Phyllis  enters  after  her  mother,  and  is  likewise  a  lit- 
tle dismayed  at  the  disorder  of  the  room.) 

Phyll.  They  are  having  a  party,  aren't  they?  Foo! 
the  heat! 

Mrs.  E.     Dick  would  have  a  fire — and  it's  June! 

Phyll.  (has  helped  to  open  the  window  and  is  now 
trying  to  straighten  the  blind)  Dick  says  a  "card- 
party  "  wouldn't  be  anything  without  a  fire.  What  is 
the  matter  with  this  beastly  old  blind — it  will  keep 
crooked? 

Mrs.  E.  {nervously)  My  dear — there's  something 
burning. 

Phyll.  {turning  excitedly)  Oh,  look  about — look 
about,  it's  Dick's  cigar  end  for  a  certainty. 

{The  two  women  commence  to  hunt) 

Here  it  is — on  the  oak,  of  course.  He  is  a  careless  old 
thing,  isn't  he?  He'd  be  burnt  down  regularly  if  I 
wasn't  here  to  look  after  him  He  dropped  one  into  the 
drawing-room  piano  yesterday,  and  we  didn't  find  it 
out  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  then  we  couldn't  get  at 
it,  so  we  had  to  spill  milk  down  to  put  it  out,  and  that 
isn't  the  best  thing  for  a  piano. 

{The  hall-door  bell  rings,  and  as  Mrs.  Ebicson  is  close 
to  it,  she  opens  it  and — ) 

Mrs.  E.     Oh,  Mr.  Corrie,  it's  you. 

Hkrbert.  (a  frank,  cheerful  youth)  Hallo,  Mrs. 
Ericson,  Dick  sent  down  to  me  about  an  hour  ago,  to 
know  if  I  had  any  cards.  I  was  out,  but  I  got  his 
message  when  I  came  in  just  now,  and  thought  I'd  bring 
'em  up  myself.  How  are  you?  {smiling  at  Phyllis) 
One  pack's  nearly  new,  the  two  others  aren't  quite,  and, 
in  fact,  I  don't  think  any  of  'em  are  perfect.  What  does 
this  sudden  burst  of  dissipation  mean? 

Phyll.  {gravely)  One  of  the  Trinity  has  got  a 
birthday. 

Herbp^rt.     {with  due  solemnity)     Ohoh!     Which  one? 

Phyll.     Sir  Horace.     The  little  fat  one. 

Herbert.     Is  that  the  one  they  call  "Waddles"? 

Phyll.     Yes. 

Mrs.  E.  I  do  hope  that  little  bed  in  the  box-room 
will  hold  him. 

Phyll.  Of  course  it  will  hold  him,  mother — he's  not 
so  very  fat.     He's  "  just  comfortable." 


WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE  5 

Herbert.     He's  staying  here? 

Phyll.  Dick's  putting  him  up  for  the  night,  other- 
wise he'd  have  had  to  go  early  to  catch  the  last  train, 
and  as  it's  his  birthday,  of  course  that  wouldn't  have 
done  at  all. 

Herbert,  (fanning  himself)  I  say— you're  awfully 
hot  in  here. 

Phyll.     Dick  would  have  a  fire. 

Herbert.     Where's  the  Imp? 

Phyll.  Oh,  the  Imp's  gone  out  to  have  a  quiet  even- 
ing of  his  own.  He's  too  young  to  stand  the  shock  of 
such  a  revel  as  this  party. 

Herbert,  (chuckles)  H'm!  It  strikes  me  that  the 
Imp  isn't  quite  as  young  as  he  looks.  Oh,  I  beg  your 
pardon.   Miss   Ericson. 

Phyll.     Not  at  all. 

Herbert.  Somehow  it's  difficult  to  think  of  the  Imp 
as  an  engaged  man. 

Phyll.     It  is  very  difficult,   isn't  it? 

Herbert.  He's  a  jolly  lucky  chap — oh,  I  beg  pardon, 
I  didn't  mean  that. 

Phyll.  Oh,  I  hope  you  did,  because  I  quite  agree  with 
you. 

Herbert.     That's  a  spiffing  dog-cart  Dick's  given  him. 

Mrs.  E.     (turning  round  aghast)      What? 

Phyll.     Dog-cart! 

Herbert.  Oh!  Didn't  you  know — er — well,  p'raps  it 
was  a  hired  one — only — well — he  did  rather  lead  me  to 
suppose  that  he  was  its  sole  proprietor. 

(Sound  of  pushing  hack  chairs  comes  mingled  with  the 
chatter  from  the  adjoining  room.) 

Hallo!      I   must  get. 

Mrs.  E.     Stop  and  see  Dick. 

Herbert.  Not  I — when  four  old  veterans  like  that 
get  together  and  have  a  birthday,  they  don't  want  any 
extraneous  juveniles  knocking  about — give  him  the 
cards.      I  hope  the  packs  are  perfect,  but  I  doubt  it. 

Mrs.  E.  Oh,  I  don't  think  it'll  matter  one  or  two 
being  gone,  nothing  ever  seems  to  matter  much  to  Dick. 

(Herbert  laughs,  and  with  a  cheery  "  Good-night "  goes 
out,  not  closing  the  hall-door  after  him.) 

Phyll.  (gravely)  That's  funny  about  Imp  and  the 
dog-cart.      I  wonder,  does  Dick  know? 


6  WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE. 

Mrs.  E.  I  don't  expect  he  knows  half  that  young  man 
is  up  to  behind  his  bacli. 

Phyll.  (gravely)  Mother,  you  mustn't  say  disre- 
spectful things  about  the  Imp,  he's  my  future  husband! 

Mks.  E.  Yes,  dear,  I  know  he  is — bother  the  boy! 
He's  left  the  door  open,  {she  goes  to  the  outer  door,  her 
eye  falls  on  something  by  the  mat)  Goodness!  {she 
stops  and  picks  up  a  key)  The  latch-key— now  who  put 
that  under  the  mat?  (a  pause)  Are  any  of  the  ser- 
vants out  at  this  hour?  No,  they're  not.  I  saw  them 
go  to  bed  ages  ago. 

Phyll.  I  put  it  there,  mother.  It's  all  right — oh, 
don't  look  amazed.  The  Imp  asked  me  to — he's  likely 
to  be  a  little  late  and  he's  mislaid  his  own. 

Mrs.  E.     {puzzled)     But  he's  gone  to  his  aunt's  at 

Phyll.     {ivith   a  little   laugh)     Oh,   no,   he   hasn't. 

Mrs.    E.     But 

Phyll.  Mother  dear,  don't  be  old-fashioned.  The 
Imp  isn't  a  child — he  can  go  to  a  Music-hall  if  he  likes. 
Another  dirty  old  damp  cigar,  {looking  at  cigar)  It's 
Dick's — he  chews  his  ends. 

Mrs.  E.  But — Oh,  Dick  thinks  he's  gone  to  his  aunt's, 
and   it   seems  almost  like   deceiving  him. 

Phyll.  If  the  Imp  deceives  Dick — Dick's  only  got 
himself  to  blame.  I  think  Dick  makes  himself  very 
ridiculous  about  the  Imp.  I  don't  deceive  Dick.  I 
merely  push  a  silly  little  latch-key  under  a  very  dirty 
mat,  that's  all.  Mother  dear,  if  anybody  saw  you  glar- 
ing at  me  like  that,  they'd  be  bound  to  think  I  was  a 
monstrosity  out  of  a  show.  Smooth  your  face  out,  and 
come  to  bed,  there's  a  dear. 

Mrs.  E.  Phyllis,  I  really  don't  believe  I  shall  ever  be 
able  to  understand  you. 

Phyll.  That's  because  of  the  difference  in  our  ages 
— you're  so  very  young,  and  I'm  so  very  old. 

Mrs.  E.     (feebly)     Why  are  you? 

Phyll.  (with  a  laugh)  Because,  if  I'm  going  to  be 
married  to  the  Imp,  I  shall  need  to  know  a  great  deal, 

Mrs.  E.     It's  very  upsetting. 

Phyll.     What  is? 

Mrs.  E.  Oh,  everything.  I'm  sometimes  tempted  to 
think — you  won't  marry  him  at  all. 

Phyll.  I  will.  I  said  I  would,  and  everybody  was 
pleased,  and  so  I  suppose  I  was — fearfully — pleased. 
After  all,  nothing  matters  as  long  as  other  people  are 
pleased,  does  it? 

Mrs.  E.  It's  very  nice  to  please  others,  if  it  doesn't 
worry  one. 


WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE.  7 

Phyll.  Well,  now  could  it  worry  one  to  be  married 
to  such  an  ideal  husband  as  the  Imp? 

Mrs.  E.     I  suppose  not. 

Phyll.  (suddenly)  Come  along,  mother  dear,  they're 
coming.  We  don't  want  to  be  convicted  of  keeping 
them  tidy. 

(She  puts  her  arm  round  her  mother  and  hurries  her 
off.  The  door  is  flung  open,  and  amid  a  general  bab- 
ble, Waddles  and  the  Soldier-Man  stalk  in  arm-in-arm. 
The  Soldier-Man  is  smoking  a  large  cigar  and  Wad- 
dles is  carrying  a  drink.  Waddles,  otherwise  known 
as  Sir  Horace  Plumely,  is  a  little,  round,  cherubic 
man  of  about  45-  The  Soldier-Man,  otherwise  known 
as  Colonel  Miles  Grahame,  is  very  tall — very  mili- 
tary, bronzed  and  handsome,  a  suspicion  of  grey  in 
his  hair.) 

Waddles,  (with  a  sigh  of  content)  Oh,  good  gra- 
cious me — we're  having  a  splendid  evening. 

S.  Man.  It's  a  very  impressive  sight  to  watch  you 
over  a  dish  of  plover's  eggs.  Waddles. 

Waddles.  Can't  resist  'em — never  could — there's 
something  in  their  shape  that  appeals  to  me. 

(The  Doctor,  a  well  set  up,  genial  Irishman  of  about 
five  and  forty,  enters  with  a  small  spirit-lamp  in  his 
hand — lighting  his  cigar  and  speaking  through  the 
puffs.) 

Doctor.  Will  ye  believe  it,  boys — wid  all  my  flow  of 
eloquence,  I  can't  persuade  Master  Dick  that  it's  his 
duty  to  marry  the  old  lady.  What's  to  be  done  about 
it  at  all— at  all? 

(Dick  enters  laden  with  cigars   and  cigarette   boxes.) 

Dick.  Lazy  demons.  Leave  me  to  carry  everything, 
as  usual. 

Waddles.  You're  the  host — I'm  the  guest  of  honour — 
it's  your  duty,  all  of  you,  to  wait  on  me.  Soldier-Man, 
fetch  me  more  plover's  egggs. 

S.  Man.  Daren't;  you'd  burst,  and  I'd  be  called  to  the 
inquest. 

Dick.  Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear,  I  haven't  laughed  as  much 
for  years  as  I   have  this  evening. 

Doctor.     If  you'd  only  propose  to  the  old  lady 

Dick.     Shut  up,  or  I'll —   (throws  cushion  at  him) 


8  WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE. 

S.  Man.  (gravely)  Really,  ye  know,  this  fire's  a 
damn  nuisance. 

Doctor.  It  is  that.  Couldn't  ye  put  it  out  somehow, 
Dick? 

Dick,  (ruefully  staring  at  it)  It  was  such  a  devil  of 
a  job  to  put  it  in. 

Waddles,  (fanning  himself)  I  must  own,  I  really 
have  felt  it  a  little  oppressive  once  or  twice. 

Dick,  (hopefully)  1  vote  we  don't  notice  it;  it'll  be 
all  right  then. 

S.  Man.  Theoretically  it  may  be  all  right — but  prac- 
tically— phew! 

Dick.  Let's  take  our  coats  off.  (then  with  a  chuckle 
to  the  Soldier-Man)  Do  you  remember  the  night  we 
took  our  coats  off  in  Princes'  Street,  Edinburgh? 

S.  Man.  Rather.  By  Gad,  what  a  pasting  you  gave 
the  brute,  Dickie! 

Doctor,  (with  a  note  of  solemn  admiration  in  his 
voice)  Ah — it's  a  beautiful  fighter  ye  were  in  those 
days,  Masther  Dick. 

(Dick  chuckles.) 

Waddles,  (sparring  at  the  Doctor)  I  was  a  bit  use- 
ful if  I  was  pushed,  wasn't  I,  Miles? 

Doctor.  Ye  were  so — but,  thank  the  Lord — ye  weren't 
often  pushed. 

Waddles.  D'ye  remember  the  day  that  by  my  su- 
perior agility  and  address  I  compelled  you  to  apologise 
on  one  knee  for  winking  at  my  best  girl  behind  my 
back? 

Doctor.  I  have  never  yet  managed  to  remember  what 
never  happened. 

Dick.     Come,  boys.      The  cards  are  getting  cold. 

Waddles,  (rising  quickly  and  going  to  table)  That's 
right!  What  I  say  is — is  this  a  card-party,  or  is  it 
isn't? 

Doctor.     Come  along,  then. 

Waddles.  My  luck  must  turn.  I've  lost  pounds 
and  pounds. 

S.  Man.     You  don't  look  it.  Waddles. 

Dick.  Leave  my  little  friend's  figure  alone — who  in- 
sults him,  insults  me — Hello!  (then  turning  with  a 
chuckle  to  Waddles)  D'ye  remember  that  night  in  the 
Rue  Mont  Pamane,  we  upset  the  claret  over  one  pack 
of  cards — and  then  sent  down  to  the  room  under- 
neath  


WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE.  9 

Waddles,  (chuckling)  I  know,  the  room  with  the 
red  blinds. 

S.  Man.     Ha!      Always  drawn. 

Dick.  Yes — and — d'ye  remember  the  message  that 
came  back — and  then  we  went  down  ourselves — we 
three. 

Waddles.     Me   first. 

Dick.  Yes,  and  I  was  next,  and  slipped  over  those 
Infernal  tins. 

S.  Man.     Gads,  yes,  I  remember. 

Dick.  And  how  all  the  giggling  stopped  dead  when 
we  opened  the  door. 

S.  Man.     By  George,  yes! 

(And  all  the  inien  sit  iack,  their  faces  beaming  with 
the  memories  of  that  night  so  long  ago.  There  is  a 
pause. ) 

Waddles,  (breaks  it  by  m,urmuring  with  his  eyes 
half  closed  and  a  beaming  smile  on  his  plump  little  face) 
One  of  'em — the  fair  one — had  her  hair  all  down.  I  re- 
member. 

(Another  pause.) 

S.  Man.  (gravely)  Ah!  Soft  hair  it  was  too,  very 
soft  and  long — very — very  long. 

Waddles,  (sitting  up  quickly)  Yes,  I  remember 
now — you  did  me  out  of  a  nice  thing  that  night  with 
your  lanky  legs  and  your  bony  shoulders.  I'm  not  sure 
it's  diplomacy  for  a  man  of  my  build  to  be  seen  about 
by  ladies  with  a  man  of  yours. 

S.  Man.  You  wern't  your  present  magnificent  propor- 
tions then.  Waddles — you  were  a  slim  little  freckled,  im- 
pudent— scaramouch. 

Waddles.  I  was — I  was — oh,  I  know  I  was.  (and 
he  beams  again  loith  renewed  delight) 

Dick.  Oh,  those  days — those  nights.  What  times  we 
used  to  have. 

Waddles.     And  will  again. 

Doctor. 

Dick. 

S.  Man. 
(together)      Rather — one  of  these  fine  days. 

Waddles,  (after  a  pause)  I  don't  think  I  was  ever 
very,   was   I? 

Dick.  Well,  I  don't  know  about  very  freckled,  was 
he,  Miles? 


10  WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE. 

Doctor.     Well,  he  was  freckled,  anyhow. 

Waddles.  I  don't  care  if  I  was.  (he  looks  cheer- 
fully at  the  circle  round  the  table — the  Soldier-Man  has 
begun  to  deal)  Oh  dear,  oh  dear.  We're  all  just  as 
young  as  we  were  then. 

{There  is  a  pause,  the  three  men  look  up  with  a  wry 

face. ) 

Dick.    Just  as  young. 

S.  Man. 

Doctor. 
{together)       Ahem — just. 

Waddles,  (patting  his  own  bald  spot  apprehensively) 
Well!!  almost — anyhow.  I  fear  I'm  beginning  to  lose  a 
little  control  over  my  figure,  but  in  some  respects  I'm 
sure  we're  younger,  aren't  we,  Dickie? 

Dick.     Much  younger.      Misdeal  again.  Miles. 

Doctor.  That's  the  third  time.  It's  the  lobster's 
flown  to  your  head,  my  poor  boy. 

S.  Man.  (smiling)  Ah,  the  young  'uns  of  to-day 
don't  know  how  to  enjoy  life  as  we  knew  how  to  enjoy 
it.     They're  all  so  damned  calculatory. 

Dick.     No  such  word. 

5S.  Man.  You  know  what  I  mean.  We,  Dickie,  you 
and  I,  never  stopped  in  the  old  days  to  turn  things  over 
in  our  minds  and  grow  grey  over  counting  the  chances 
of  what  would  or  wouldn't  happen.  We  went  slap  at 
everything,  like  the  healthy  young  devils  we  were. 

Waddles.     Are. 

All.     Are,  of  course. 

S.  Man.  And  if  we  got  our  ears  boxed — damme — it 
did  us  good — and — er — if  we  didn't  get  our  ears  boxed — 
well 

Dick,  (cheerfully,  speaking  for  him)  Damme,  that 
did  us  good,  too. 

General  Chorus,  (cheerfully)  So  it  did,  of  course 
it  did. 

Doctor.     Ah,  we  are  a  merry  Trinity. 

Waddles,  (quickly)  Quadrity!  Don't  forget  me, 
if  you  please. 

S.  Man.  Ah,  Waddy,  you're  not  an  original  member 
— you  grew  on  to  it  later. 

Dick.     You  did — you  plump  little  parasite. 

Doctor.  It  was  three  years  later  you  threw  in  your- 
self on  us,  Waddy  dear. 

Waddles,  (gloomy)  I  know  it  was.  But  oh,  after 
all  these  years  don't  you  think  it  would  be  more  gen- 


WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE.  H 

tlemanly  of  you  three  to  forget  your  blessed  Trinity,  and 
start  friends  level? 

S.  Man.     Damme!    I've  mis-dealt  again. 

Doctor.  It  must  be  the  lobster — it  couldn't  be  the 
wine. 

Dick.     Here,  I'll  have  a  go  this  time. 

S.  Man.  {leaning  back  in  his  chair  and  stretching 
his  long  legs)  Remember  that  night  in  Boulogne  when 
we 

Dick,  (gravel)  Ought  we  to  discuss  that  before 
Waddles — he's  very  young. 

Doctor.     And  very  immature. 

Waddles.  It  is  my  birthday.  I  won't  keep  on  being 
got  at,  and  my  glass  has  been  empty  for  ages. 

Dick,  (rising  quickly)  My  dear  Waddy,  I'm  aw- 
fully sorry.  I  left  the  drinks  in  the  dining  room.  You 
deal  on  where  I  left  off — oh — where  did  I  leave  off — 
never  mind,  go  on  where  I  did.  I  don't  know,  a  card 
or  two  more  or  less  won't  make  much  difference  at 
this  time  of  night. 

Doctor,  (counting  the  cards)  Count  your  cards, 
boys. 

(They  do  so.  Then  the  Doctor  folds  his  hands  across 
Ms  middle  and  lets  his  roving  eyes  rest  on  a  photo- 
graph of  Phyllis  that  hangs  on  the  wall.) 

(placidly)  It's  a  wonderful  invention,  this  photography 
— sure  that's  a  speaking  likeness  of  the  child. 

(The  other  two,  absorbed  in  counting,  merely  grunt.) 

She's  a  beautiful  gyurl! 

S.  Man.     She  is. 

Waddles.     Beautiful  indeed. 

Doctor.  Why  did  none  of  us  have  the  chance  of 
meeting  such  an  angel  when  we  were  the  Imp's  age? 

S.  Man.  Because  we'd  all  have  got  married,  and  then 
none  of  us  would  have  been  here  to-night. 

Waddles,     (having   counted)       Seven. 

S.  Man.  And  seven  here.  The  Imp's  a  lucky  little 
chap. 

Waddles.     He  is  so — no,  it's  eight  I  have. 

Doctor.  Be — devil  the  cyards.  I  can't  count  for 
thinking. 

Waddles.  It's  my  belief  the  Imp  will  have  to  let 
off  a  lot  of  steam  before  he's  fit  to  run  in  double  har- 
ness. 


12  WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE. 

(^The  two  others  give  grunts  of  mutual  acquiescence. 
Then  there  is  a  pause,  broken  hy — ) 

All.     I  wish —  (they  stop  and  each  looks  at  the  other) 
Doctor.     What? 

(Waddles  and  the  Soldiee-Man  pick  up  their  cards  a 
little  sheepishly.) 

S.   Man.     Nothing. 

Doctor,  (looking  at  them  both,  quizzically)  It's  the 
same  case  wid  all  of  us,  I'm  thinking. 

Waddles.     What's  that? 

S.  Man.     I  fail  to  follow. 

Doctor,  (gravely)  Why,  all  of  us  u'd  gladly  lay 
down  in  the  mud,  and  let  Miss  Phylley  dance  herself 
thro'  life  on  our  bedabbled  corpses. 

Waddles,     (loftily)      Not  at  all — not  at  all. 

S.  Man.     Not  I. 

Doctor,  (shaking  his  head)  Ye're  fooling  your- 
selves, the  facts  is  as  I  say.  Howld  yer  whist.  Here 
he  comes  and  the  whiskey  wine. 

(Dick  enters  with  a  bottle  from  Tantalus.) 

Dick.     It's  nearly  empty. 

Doctor.  Nearly  empty,  it  is  that  an'  more.  Never 
mind — when  it's  finished,  we  can  all  go  and  forage  in 
the  barrel.     Here  are  your  cards,  my  son. 

Dick,  (sitting  down  and  picking  up  his  cards') 
Miles,  how  the  dickens  do  you  keep  so  tidy?  You  don't 
even  get  tobacco  ash  on  your  trousers  (and  he  brushes 
himself  vigorously  with  his  hands) 

S.  Man.     It's  constitutional. 

Doctor,     (looking  at  his  cards)      I  propose. 

Waddles,     (looking  at  his  hand)     I  pass. 

Dick.  Half  a  minute.  I  haven't  looked  at  my  hand. 
I  wish  to  goodness  the  Imp  were  here.  I  find  his  ad- 
vice at  cards  most  invaluable. 

Doctor.     His  father  was  a  good  card  player. 

Dick.  Card  playing's  a  gift,  (then  looking  round  at 
the  other  players)      What's  happened? 

S.  Man.     Proposal  over  there. 

Dick,  (as  he  laboriously  arranges  and  examines  his 
cards)  Jolly  tactful  of  him  to  go  out  to-night,  so  that 
we  four  should  be  all  to  ourselves,  wasn't  it? 

Waddles.  Very — we're  waiting  for  you — what  do 
you  do? 


WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE.  13 

Dick.  Oh,  is  it  me  to  shout?  Oh,  I  pass— no,  I  don't 
— I'll  accept  you,  Doctor. 

Waddles.     Come  on,  we'll  down  'em.     My  lead. 

Dick.  Hallo,  I've  only  got  twelve  cards,  {he  counts 
them  out) 

S.  Man.     It's  an  imperfect  pack — it  must  be. 

Dick.     Try  another,  and  deal  again. 

S.  Man.  I'm  a  bit  sick  of  dealing,  somebody  else  have 
a  go. 

Doctor,  (cheerfully)  I'll  do  it.  {and  he  deals 
while  the  others  watch  him) 

S.  Man.  I  say,  old  man — I  hear  you  didn't  take  that 
fishing  after  all. 

Dick.     No. 

S.  Man.  Why  the  dickens  didn't  you— it's  quite  the 
best. 

Dick.  I  daresay,  but  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  I 
couldn't  afford  it. 

S.  Man.     Rubbish! 

Dick.     It's  fact. 

S.  Man.  Then  I  expect  you  let  the  Imp  run  away 
with  all  the  spare  cash,  eh,  Master  Dick? 

(Dick  smiles.) 

Dick.     He  runs  away  with  a  good  deal,  bless  him. 

Doctor.     It's  a  mistake. 

Dick.    What  is? 

Waddles.     You  spoil  him. 

Dick.     I   don't. 

Doctor,  {interposing  quickly)  Ah,  now  do  let's  drop 
the  Imp,  and  get  on  with  our  game.  We're  the  Imps  to- 
night, not  21,  any  man  Jack  of  us. 

{The  others  pay  no  attention  to  him,  and  the  Soldieb- 
Man  goes  on  gravely.) 

S.  Man.  I  think,  Dick,  if  you'll  allow  me  to  say  so, 
you're  wrong  in  letting  him  run  away  with  the  idea 
that  his  income  is  unlimited. 

Dick.     He's  welcome  to  all  I've  got — and  he  knows  it. 

Waddles.  And  doesn't  scruple  to  make  use  of  his 
knowledge,   I'm  thinking. 

S.  Man.  That's  all  very  well,  old  man — but  I  don't 
think  you've  got  more  than  enough  for  yourself. 

Dick.      Oh,  I  want  very  little. 

Waddles.  Why  have  you  given  up  your  cob,  Dickie? 
,  Dick,  yshoving  his  fingers  through  his  hair)  Oh,  I 
I  dunno. 


14:  WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE. 

S.  Man.    You  didn't  shoot  last  year.     How  was  that? 

Dick.     Er — I   dunno. 

Waddles.  I  do;  you  think  the  money  is  more  profita- 
ble squandered  on  the  boy. 

Dick.     Well,  p'raps  I  do. 

S.  Man.     Rot. 

Doctor.     Not  at  all. 

Waddles.     You  spoil  him. 

S.  Man.  Does  he  know  that  you're  giving  up  all  the 
fun  you  used  to  get  out  of  life,  that  he  may  enjoy  him- 
self more  than's  good  for  him? 

Dick.     He  doesn't,  because  I'm  not. 

Doctor.  You  let  him  have  every  mortal  thing  he 
wants. 

Dick.     I  don't. 

Waddles.  If  he  cried  for  the  moon  you'd  make  an 
effort  to  get  it  for  him. 

Dick.     So  would  all  of  you. 

Waddles.     It  can't  be  a  good  training. 

Doctor.     No,  indeed  it  can't. 

Dick.  Look  here,  it's  all  very  well  to  round  on  me, 
but — but,  under  the  circumstances,  I  don't  think  I've 
turned  the  boy  out  badly. 

(Waddles  shakes  Ms  head  and  groans.) 

I  think  he's  a  splendid  fellow,  if  you  ask  me. 

S.  Man.     So  do  I — that's  not  quite  the  point. 

Dick.  Of  course,  I  may  have  gone  wrong  in  one  or 
two  little  things 

Doctor.  Ye've  gone  wrong  on  more  than  one  or  two 
little  things  to  my  certain  knowledge. 

Dick.  Still  I've  done  my  best  to  turn  him  out  all  right. 
Suppose  you  three  chaps  have  a  go  at  him  now.  Every 
little  helps,  and  I'm  jolly  sure  that  out  of  our  united 
experiences  we  ought  to  be  able  to  teach  him  a  thing 
or  two. 

Waddles,  (beamingly)  I'm  sure  any  one  of  us 
could  instruct  him  how  to  have  a  high  old  time. 

Dick,     (shortly)      That's  not  what  I  mean. 

Doctor.     Shut  up,  Waddles,  you're  a  rake. 

(Waddles  chortles  with  conscious  pride.) 

S.  Man.  Now  we  are  on  this  subject,  I  should  like 
to  know  how  he  does  really  stand — financially,  I  mean. 

Dick,  (a  little  embarrassed)  Oh,  he's  all  right  that 
way. 


WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE.  15 

Doctor.  Let's  see,  how  auld  was  he  when  he  became 
our  property? 

Dick.     Two. 

S.  Man.     And  from  then  till  now 

Waddles.     Nineteen  years. 

S.  Man.  He  has  been  your  old  man  of  the  sea — that  is 
to  say — he  has  lived  with  you? 

(Dick  nods.) 

Doctor.  And  we've  each  contributed  a  paltry  £25  per 
annum  for  the  little  beggar's  maintenance. 

Waddles.  And  what  with  tutors  for  this  and  tutors 
for  that  and  sending  him  to  Harrow  and  buying  him 
books  and  cricket  bats,  I  don't  think  that  there  can  be 
much  margin  on  that  hundred  a  year. 

S.  Man.  Dickie,  as  co-guardians  with  you  of  that  boy 
— we  demand  to  know — what  is  his  financial  position? 

Dick.  Well,  as  a  matter  fact,  he's  all  right.  That— 
er — £100  a  year  that  we've  arranged  to  let  him  have — I — 
er — well,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I've  made 'that  a  sort  of 
a  sinking  fund  for  him — I — I've  never  touched  that. 
It's  been  left  to  accumulate  and — er — well,  it's  about 
£3000  now. 

Waddles,     (bangs  the  table)      I  thought  as  much. 

Doctor.     So  did  I. 

S.  Man.  Then  you  have  paid  for  his  entire  bringing 
up — ever  since  he's  belonged  to  us? 

Dick.  It's  been  all  right.  I  didn't  want  the  money 
for  myself,  and  I  thought  our  allowances  would  be  very 
handy  for  him  in  a  lump  sum  when  he  came  of  age. 

S.  Man.     You've  done  more  than  was  necessary. 

Waddles.  Much  more  than  he  had  any  right  to  ex- 
pect. 

Dick,  (rising  quietly)  I  don't  think  so,  any  one  of 
you  in  my  place  would  have  done  just  the  same. 

(He  rises  and  goes  to  his  desk.) 

He  is  Charlie's  boy — (a  silence  falls  on  the  men)  you 
remember  when  old  Charlie  came  and  told  the  four  of 
us  he  meant  to  be  married. 

Waddles.  And  what  a  silly  ass  sort  of  thing  we 
thought  it  was  then. 

Doctor,  (shaking  his  head  sadly)  Oh,  dear  old 
Charlie — one  of  the  best. 

Dick,     (sadly)      One  of  the  best. 


16  WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE. 

{Another  pause — the  men's  minds  drift  back  into  the 

past.) 

That  wedding  day. 

Waddles.     One  of  my  boots  was  too  tight. 

S.  Man.     I  was  best  man. 

Waddles.  Only  because  ye  looked  most  showy  walk- 
ing up  the  aisle. 

Dick.  Then  two  years  afterwards  the  coming  of  the 
Imp,  and  the  passing  away  of  Mrs.  Charlie.  Poor  old 
chap,  how  lonely  and  desolate  it  seemed  to  leave  him. 
Do  you  remember  how  we  used  to  watch  him  from  our 
windows  walking  up  and  down  that  field  behind  the 
stables  day  in,  day  out,  with  the  Imp  huddled  up  in  his 
arms? 

Doctor.     He  was  hard  hit — poor  old  son. 

Waddles.     He  was  that. 

S.  Man.     Broke  him  up. 

Dick.  He'd  have  got  out  of  it,  had  it  not  been  for  his 
dread  of  leaving  the  Imp  alone.  Do  you  remember  this 
—  (he  goes  to  the  desk  and  takes  out  a  worn  letter  and 
reads)  "  Im  going,  old  man — and  somehow  I  don't 
much  care.  I've  never  given  much  thought  to  the  other 
side — but  anyhow  she's  there.  Dick,  I  want  to  speak  of 
my  boy.  I'm  leaving  him.  I'm  helpless.  I'm  leaving 
him  alone,  there  is  only  you,  you  and  the  Trinity,  boys 
look  after  my  boy  when  I'm  gone.  Make  a  man  of  him, 
make  him  what  you  know  he  ought  to  be.  Make  the 
Trinity  proud  of  him,  for  their  old  Charlie's  sake,  let 
him  step  into  my  place  with  you  all,  let  him  be  one  of 
us.  I'm  leaving  him  so  terribly  alone.  Oh,  for  God's 
sake,  Dick,  be  Father — Mother — be  air  to  him."  (Dick 
stops  and  refolds  the  letter)  And — and — I've  done  it, 
boys.  I've  been  father  and  mother  and — and,  oh,  I've 
been  a  damn  fool,  I  dai^esay — but  I've  done  my  best. 
(then  loith  a  sudden  outburst)  Hang  it  all,  so  have 
you,  you've  all  made  fools  of  yourselves  about  him  at 
one  time  or  another.  You — {he  points  a  scornful  finger 
at  the  Soldieb-Man)  You've  swaggered  down  Piccadilly 
with  him  sittting  on  your  shoulders  rubbing  your  top 
hat  the  wrong  way.  I  was  with  you  and  saw  even  the 
cabmen  laughing,  {then  he  turns  fiercely  on  Waddles) 
You — you  were  caught  in  a  four-wheeler  in  Pall  Mall 
with  a  rocking  horse  on  top,  a  most  invidious  position 
for  an  unmarried  man.  {they  all  laugh)  You  laugh 
at  me.  Very  well — laugh  away.  I'm  a  hen  with  one 
chicken,  I  daresay,  and  a  hen  with  one  chicken  I'll  be  to 
the  end  of  the  chapter,  but  I  mean  that  chicken  to  be  a 


WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE.  17 

bally  swan  before  I  go  and  tell  Charlie  how  we've  reared 
his  boy. 

(And  very  excited  he  goes  across  to  the  bureau  and  re- 
places the  letter,  shutting  the  drawer  with  a  snap.) 

Doctor.  Well,  well,  well— he's  a  fine  ould  youngster— 
but  all  this  has  given  me  the  doldrums,  Dickie,  me  son 
— excursh  into  the  larder,  and  trot  out  another  jug  of 
whiskey  wine. 

Dick.  I — I — I'm  awfully  sorry.  I  didn't  mean  to  get 
so  serious. 

Waddles.  Let's  get  on  with  our  game;  there  won't  be 
time  for  me  to  get  that  £7  back  if  we  don't. 

Dick.  Come  along,  Waddy, — you  shall  have  it,  if  I 
have  to  revoke  to  give  it  you — wait  till  I  get  the  whiskey, 
where  the  devil  are  the  matches. 

Waddles.     Hurry  up. 

S.  Man.  You  chaps  drink  too  much.  Waddles,  how 
is  it  you  can  not  keep  your  waistcoat  buttoned? 

Waddles.     Oh,  do  leave  my  wardrobe  alone. 

(Dick  retires  to  the  pantry,  laughing.) 

S.  Man.  There  never  was  a  man  so  completely  de- 
voted to  any  one  as  Dick  is  to  that  boy. 

Waddles.     Talk  of  love  of  women. 

Doctor.  If  anything  happened  to  him  he's — what's 
that? 

(A  pause,  they  all  listen.) 

S.  Man.     Some  one  at  the  front  door. 

(Another  pause.  The  door  is  heard  to  open  and  close 
softly,  then  another  paxise,  then  the  room  door  opens 
softly  and  the  Imp  peers  in — he  is  surprised  at  the 
sight  of  the  Trinity,  hut  smiles  at  them  a  little  va- 
santly.) 

Imp.     Hullo! 

(The  Trinity  glare  at  him  in  dismay.) 

S.  Man.     Good  God! 

Waddles.     Imp,  where  have  you  been? 
Imp.     (tvith  a  chuckle)     Sh— 1.     Spen'in'  the  evenin' 
with  my  fiancee. 


18  WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE. 

Doctor,     (with  a  shout)     What! 

S.  Man.  You  young  idiot,  where  in  thunder  have  you 
been? 

Imp.     Sh — 1 — it's  a  secret — doncher  tell  Dick. 

Waddles.     Phyllis. 

Imp.  Sir  Horace,  I  dinnot  refer  to  Phyllis.  Phyllis' 
sweet  girl — but  she's  not  my  fiancee.  Don't  you  tell 
Dick  I  sezzo,  I'm  keepin'  my  fiancee  back  for  a  bit. 
I'll  s'prize  you  all  with  her  some  day.  Now  if  I  could 
get  to  bed.  They  made  me  drink  heaps  of  things  all 
mixed  up  together  to  see  if  I  was  a  man  now  that's 
over.  I  shewed  'em  I  was  a  man — and  so — now — now 
do  you  think  you  could  put  me  to  bed,  Sir  'Grace? 

(Dick  heard  off.) 

S.  M\N.  Here's  Dick — keep  him  out.  I'll  get  the 
young  beggar  to  bed. 

Waddles.     Oh,  Dick  must  never  know. 

Doctor.  Quick!  Man — quick!  He  must  know  he's 
come  home. 

S.  Man.     Yes,  but  not  hoiv  he's  come  home. 

Imp.  Oh,  I'm  so  awfully  unwell — don'  mention  this 
lir  matter  to  Dick. 

Doctor.     He's  coming. 

S.  Man.     Lock  the  door. 

{He  grabs  the  'bewildered  Imp  and  rushes  off  with  him, 
while  Waddles  goes  to  intercept  Dick.  He  shuts  the 
door  and  hunts  for  the  key.) 

Waddles.     There's  no  key. 

S.  Man.     Keep  him  out  for  a  minute  anyhow. 

(He  and  Doctor  exit  with  Imp.) 

Dick,  (pushing  against  door)  Hullo,  what's  against 
the  door?  (a  pause)  Open,  one  of  you  chaps — my 
hands  are  full. 

Waddles.     Ye  can't  come  in. 

DicH.     What  do  ye  mean? 

Waddles.  I  won't  let  ye  in  till  ye  swear  that  for  a 
whole  year  ye  won't  make  a  single  rude  remark  about 
the  gradual  disappearance  of  the  hair  on  the  top  of  my 
head. 

Dick.     All  right.      I  swear. 

Waddles,  (looking  round  in  agony  for  the  others) 
Holy  powers,  I  wonder  will  they  be  long. 


WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY- ONE.  19 

Dick.  Take  your  fat  little  carcas  out  of  the  way, 
Waddles. 

Waddles.  What's  that?  Fat  little  carcas — I  think 
you  said. 

Dick.     Fat  little  carcas^at  head!      Open  the  door. 

Waddles.  Withdraw  your  "  fat  little  carcas  "  and  I 
will  move.      Apologise — apologise! 

Dick.  Oh,  I  apologise.  Miles,  take  the  little  beggar 
away. 

(A  crash  of  glass  from  outside  the  door.) 

Oh,  damn! 

Waddles.     What's  that? 

Dick.  You  blithering  idiot,  you've  made  me  drop  the 
whiskey. 

Waddles.  Oh,  and  here's  a  blessed  stream  trickling 
under  the  door. 

Dick.     Lap  it  up — I'm  soaked  to  the  skin. 

Waddles.  Oh,  think  of  the  waste  of  whiskey.  Go, 
get  some  more,  there's  a  pet  lamb. 

(Dick  retires,  grumbling,  as  the  Doctok  and  Soldieb- 

Man  re-enter.) 

Waddles,     (excitedly)      I  kept  him  out — is  he 

Doctor.  Yes,  he's  in  bed — Phew — what  the  dickens 
are  we  to  do  now  at  all — at  all. 

S.  Man.     Dick  mustn't  see  him  till  the  morning. 

Waddles.  Don't  let  him  know  he's  home — he  doesn't 
expect  him  to-night — so,  it'll  be  all  right. 

Doctor.  What  the  devil  did  he  mean  about  his 
"  fiancee." 

Waddles.     Who  can  she  be? 

S.  Man.     a  bar-maid  for  a  sovereign. 

Waddles.     What'll  Dick  say? 

S.  Man.    Nothing— if  he's  wise.     Eh!      Here  he  comes. 

(Dick  enters  tvith  the  whiskey  in  a  jug  and  the  broken 
Tantalus  bottle.) 

Dick.  Here  I  am— look  at  me — thanks  to  you  luna- 
tics, I'm  smelling  like  a  preambulating  public  house. 

Doctor.     Good  gracious — what's  up  wid  you? 

Dick.  What  do  you  mean  by  letting  him  play  such 
tricks?  You're  old  enough  to  know  better — so  you  are. 
Miles— just  look  at  the  state  of  my  trousers. 

Doctor.     Well— well.     Maybe   it's  a  blessing  in   dis-. 


20  WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE. 

guise.  What  wid  whiskey  inside  and  out,  the  prospects 
of  the  evening  are  improving. 

Waddles.  It  serves  you  right;  how  dare  you  be 
serious  on  my  forty -seventh  birthday? 

S.  Man.  Forty-seventh  nonsense!  Twenty-first — 
time  enough  to  be  forty-seven  to-morrow  morning. 
Here's  fortune  to  us  boys!  Dickie,  what's  that  thing  of 
old  Thackeray's  you  used  to  spout  under  the  influence 
of  liquor? 

Waddles,  (clapping  his  hands)  "  In  the  brave  days 
when  I  was  twenty-one." 

S.  Man.     That's  it. 

Doctor.     Sure,  I've  not  heard  it  for  years. 

Dick.  Here's  your  drink,  Waddles!  Good  gad,  I 
feel  as  if  I  was  at  school  again.  How  did  the  old  thing 
go? 

(And  he  recites  the  poem,  the  three  fellows  waving 
their  glasses  and  chiming  in  cheerily  with  the  re- 
frain. ) 

With  pensive  eyes  the  little  room  I  view 
Where  in  my  youth  I  weathered  it  so  long 
With  a  wild  mistress,  a  staunch  friend  or  two. 
And  a  light  heart,  still  bursting  into  song. 
Making  a  mock  of  Life  and  all  its  cares 
Rich  in  the  glory  of  my  rising  sun, 
Lightly  I  vaulted  up  four  pair  of  stairs. 
In  the  brave  days  when  I  was  twenty-one. 

To  dream  long  dreams  of  beauty,  love,  and  power. 
From  founts  of  hope  that  never  will  out-run, 
To  drain  all  life's  quintessence  in  an  hour. 
Give  me  the  days  when  I  was  twenty-one. 

(And  as  he  finishes  he  lifts  his  glass.) 

A  toast,  boys,  a  toast — all  standing! 

(They  all  rise.) 

Good  luck  and  long  life  to  the  Trinity. 
Waddles,     (fiercely)     Quadrity! 
Omnes.     (raising  glasses)     Quadrity! 

{They  drink;  as  they  are  doing  so,  the  door  softly  opens 
and  Phyllis  looks  in,  smiling.) 


WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE.  21 

Phyll.     (softly)     Good-night! 
(All  the  men  wheel  round  towards  her  and  echo.) 
Omnes.     Good-night! 

(There  is  a  slight  pause,  no  one  moves  and  she  kisses 
her  hand;  they  all  gravely  kiss  theirs  to  her,  and  she 
softly  closes  the  door  and  disappears — there  is  an- 
other pause,  and  a  half  sigh  escapes  from  all  the  men 
as  they  stand  looking  at  the  door.) 

Dick,     (tenderly)      Bless  her.      (then,  with  a  change 
of  tone)       Come  along.     I'm  sure  it's  my  turn  to  deal. 

(They  all  go  hack  to  the  card  table  and  sit  down  as  the) 
CURTAIN   FALLS. 


22  WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE. 


ACT    II. 

The  same  scene.    Next  morning. 

(Dick  and  Phyllis  and  Mrs.  Ericson  and  Waddles  just 

finishing  hreakfact.) 

Dick,  (passing  his  cup  to  Phyllis)  You're  a  terri- 
ble chap  for  late  hours,  Waddles. 

Sir  H.     Only  on  my  birthday. 

Dick.  What's  the  matter  with  the  Imp,  he's  not 
down  yet? 

Phyll.     This  is  your  third  cup,  Dick. 

Dick.  I  always  require  four  after  a  night  with  Wad- 
dles—don't I,  Waddles? 

(Sir  H.,  half  buried  in  his  tea-cup,  mumhles  an  indis- 
tinct reply.) 

Mrs.  E.  I  hope  that  little  bed  didn't  inconvenience 
you,  Sir  Horace. 

Sir  H.     Oh,  not  a  bit.     I  only  rolled  out  once. 

Mrs.  B.     Oh,  Sir  Horace,  I'm  so  grieved. 

Dick.  Not  at  all — his  tendency  to  roll  is  not  due  to 
the  size  of  the  bed,  is  it  Waddles? 

{The  Imp  enters,  a  little  heavy-eyed,  but  ivith  an  affecta- 
tion of  cheerfulness.) 

Imp.     Morning — morning,  every  one. 

DicH.     Hullo,  boy. 

Others.     Good  morning.  Imp. 

Imp.     I'm  jolly  late — so  sorry.      I  was  shaving. 

Sir  H.     (gravely  enquiring)     I  beg  pardon? 

Imp.     (turning  to  him)      Shaving — Sir  Horace! 

Sir  H.  (as  if  much  impressed)  Oh — I  see — shaving 
^yes,  of  course,  very  wise — very  wise. 

Mrs.  E.  (giving  him  a  plate)  I'm  afraid  the  bacon 
is  quite  cold,  dear. 


WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE.  23 

Imp.  (with  a  slight  shudder)  Bacon — I  really  don't 
think  I  can  this  morning. 

(Waddles  chuckles.) 

Is  there  any  toast  left? 

(Phyllis  rings  the  bell.) 

Thanks,  old  girl. 

Dick.  You  weren't  at  a  birthday,  Impy — you  ought 
to  be  able  to  take  your  food. 

Sir  H.  I  have  often  found  that  an  evening  spent  in 
peaceful,  homely  talk  produces  a  disinclination  for  rich 
food  in  the  morning.  I  observe  my  theory  proved  in 
your  case  this  morning,  Master  Richard. 

Imp.  (with  a  nervous  laugh)  Do  you?  Could  I 
have  some  more  hot  water? 

(Phtllis  runs  and  rings.) 

Thanks,  old  girl. 

(Maid  enters.) 

Some  more  toast  and  hot  water,  Dodd. 

Dick.  You  bolted  off  to  bed  very  mysteriously  last 
night. 

Sib  H.  Richard  did  as  his  elders  bid  him,  like  a  good 
boy — didn't  you,  Richard? 

Imp.     Yes. 

Sir  H.  Richard  was  most  desirous  to  say  good-night 
to  you,  Dick — but,  on  our  promising  that  you  would 
tuck  him  up  when  he  was  safely  in  bed — he  consented 
to  retire  without  your  good-night  kiss. 

Dick.  Shut  up,  Waddles.  Phyllis,  it's  Friday — if  you 
let  me  have  your  accounts  and  my  cheque  book,  I'll 
write  one  out.  I  shan't  be  a  minute,  Waddles,  old  man; 
you're  not  going  till  the  three-thirty,  are  you? 

Sib  H.  (tvho  has  never  taken  his  eyes  off  the  Imp, 
much  to  the  Imp's  discomfort)  No!  Richard,  don't 
you  think  a  Bromo  Seltzer  would  do  you  good? 

Dick.     Eh? 

Sir  H.     He  doesn't  feel  well— do  you,  Richard? 

Imp.  (quickly,  darting  a  furious  glance  at  Sib  H.) 
Quite  well,  thank  you. 

Sib  H.  Dick,  I  think  he's  sickening  for  soifiething. 
Won't  somebody  look  at  his  tongue? 


24:  WHEN  "WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE. 

Dick,     (cheerily)     Anything  wrong,  Imp? 

Imp.  (laughing)  Of  course  not,  Dick.  It's  Sir 
Horace's  joke,  that's  all.     Wish  they'd  bring  that  toast. 

Phyll.  They  had  to  make  it,  you  know — you're  so 
late,  I  expect  the  fire  was  just  made  up. 

Dick,     (at  door)     Here's  his  toast.     No,  it's  his  hot 
water.      I  shan't  be  a  moment,  old  man. 
(Dick   goes   out   as   the   Maid   enters   with   water   jug. 

Mrs.  Ericson  goes  to  small  work  table.      Sir  H.  ap- 
pears absorbed  in  the  morning  paper.) 

Sir  H.     (to  himself)     Sh!      Dear — dear — dear! 

Mrs.  E.    What's  that? 

Sir  H.     Sad — sad  case!      Poor  young  fellow! 

Phyll.     (lightly)     What  happened? 

Sir  H.  Oh,  sad  case.  This  young  fellow,  it  appears — 
nice  young  fellow — sweet  nature  and  all  that — plenty 
of  loving  friends — happy  home  and  all  that.  But  weak 
— very  weak — falls  into  bad  hands — sits  up  late — drinks 
heaps  of  things  all  mixed  up  to  prove  that  he  was  a 
man — what's  the  result?  Proves  he's  only  a  young  fool 
— and  next  morning  at  breakfast  he's  seized  with  a 
violent 

{The   Imp  chokes   into   his   tea-cup — and   Phyllis   and 
Sib  H.  rise  hurriedly  to  avoid  damage.) 

Sir  H.  (waving  the  paper  at  him)  Damme,  Sir — 
pull  yourself  together  or  you'll  choke. 

Phyll.  Well,  Imp,  as  you  don't  seem  to  be  eating 
any  breakfast,  I'll  go  and  get  the  accounts  for  Dick. 

Imp.     (through  his  choke)      Cut  along. 

Mrs.  E.     Did  you  change  your  vest,  this  morning? 

Sir  H.  (looking  up,  then  turning  fiercely  to  the 
Imp)  Do  you  hear,  sir — did  you  change  your  vest 
this  morning? 

Imp.     Hang  it  all — yes,  I  suppose  so. 

Mrs.  E.  (almost  to  herself)  I'd  better  see  those 
new  ones  must  be  marked —  (she  gathers  up  her  work 
and  hurries  out) 

(Pause.  Sir  H.  glares  at  the  Imp  a  moment,  then  re- 
turns with  a  grunt  to  his  paper.  The  Imp  rises  and 
lights  a  cigarette.) 

Sir  H.  (not  looking  up)  That's  mere  bravado — you 
can't  enjoy  your  cigarette  this  morning. 

Imp.  (after  a  pause,  chucks  it  into  the  grate)  I 
can't. 


WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE.  26 

(Sir  H.  grunts.) 

Imp.  (loith  Ms  hack  to  Sir  H.  and  Ms  foot  on  the 
fender,  stares  into  the  empty  grate)     I  say 

(Sir  H.,  not  moving,  grunts  again.) 

■9 

It — it — was  jolly  good  of  you  chaps  not  to  tell  Dick. 

Sir  H.     {shortly)      Don't  call  me  a  chap,  boy. 

Imp.     I  beg  your  pardon. 

Sir  H.  And  Colonel  Grahame  would  be  exceedingly 
annoyed  if  he  heard  himself  described  so  familiarly  by  a 
boy  of  your  age. 

Imp.     He's  too  good  a  sort  to  mind. 

Sir  H.     He's  no  such  thing. 

Imp.  You  needn't  run  him  down — you  know  he's  a 
friend  of  Dick's. 

Sir  H.  Run  him  down!  God  bless  my  soul.  How 
dare  you! 

Imp.     He's  a  good  sort,  whatever  you  may  say. 

Sir  H.  Whatever  I — good  gracious — are  you  aware 
that  you're  a  young  scamp? 

Imp.    I  am  not 

(He  lights  another  cigarette.) 

Sir  H.  You'll  be  sick,  sir — throw  it  away.  The 
Colonel  has  often  expressed  to  me  the  deep  regret  with 
which  he  has  noticed  the  growing  disrespect  that  the 
young  men  of  to-day  have  for  their  elders. 

Imp.  (quietly)  I  don't  think  any  one  would  have 
occasion  to  say  that  if  all  our  elders  were  like  you 
four  chaps. 

(A  pause.) 

Sir  H.  (completely  mollified)  Give  me  one  of  your 
cigarettes. 

(The  Imp  hands  him  his  case.) 

Now,  then,  what's  all  this  about  this  woman? 

Imp.     (innocently)     What  woman? 

Sir  H.     (with  scorn)     Your  disreputable  fiancee. 

Imp.     (with  an  affectation  of  surprise)     Phyllis? 

Sir  H.  (jumping  out  of  his  chair)  How  dare  you, 
sir? 

Imp.    Isn't  Phyllis  my  fiancee? 


26  WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE. 

Sir  H.     She  is,  sir. 

Imp.  Then,  what  do  you  mean  by  calling  her  disrep- 
utable? I  don't  think  it's  right  to  speak  of  your  friends 
behind  their  backs  in  the  way  you  do. 

Sir  H.     I  do  not. 

Imp.     You  said  the  Colonel  wasn't  a  good  sort. 

Sir  H.     No  such  thing. 

Imp.     And  now  you  tell  me  Phyllis  is  disreputable. 

Sir  H.     How  dare  you? 

Imp.  I  shall  have  to  ask  you  to  prove  your  state- 
ment. 

Sir  H.  I  meant  the  woman  you're  keeping  back — the 
one  you're  going  to  surprise  us  with.  Tell  me  all  about 
her. 

Imp.  (gravely)  Really,  Sir  Horace — gentlemen  do 
not  discuss  their  little  affaires  de  coeur  with  each  other 
after  breakfast — not  good  form. 

Sir  H.     Good  form  be  damned — how  dare  you? 

Imp.  Dick  has  always  begged  me  to  endeavour  to  dis- 
courage bad  language  among  my  friends — would  you 
mind  trying  to  check  your  tendency?  You'll  find  it  will 
get  quite  a  hold  on  you,  if  you  don't  watch  yourself. 
Even  I  have  had  to  be  careful. 

Sir  H.     You're  an  impertinent  young  jackanapes. 

Imp.  (slowly)  No,  I'm  not —  (there  is  a  long  pause) 
I'm  awfully  miserable,  that's  all. 

Sir  H.  (insinuatingly)  Poor  old  Imp —  (lie  goes  to 
the  hoy  and  puts  his  hand  on  his  shoulder)  "What's  her 
name? 

Imp.     Nothing  of  the  sort. 

Sir  H.  Don't  you  think  you'd  better  tell  Dick  all 
about  it? 

Imp.     Not  yet. 

Sir  H.  (very  quietly)  Are  you  behaving  quite  hon- 
orably  towards   Phyllis? 

(A  pause.) 

You  had  too  much  liquor  last  night,  you've  got  a  head 
on  you.  Come  along,  sir — we'll  walk  briskly  down  to 
my  club,  have  a  Brandy  and  Soda,  and  chat  the  whole 
thing  over  like  men. 

Imp.  (languidly)  I  don't  mind  the  Brandy  and 
Soda — but,  you'll  have  to  tackle  the  talk. 

Sir  H.  (handing  him  clothes  brush)  We'll  see  about 
that.      Kindly  brush  me. 

{The  Imp  does  as  he  is  told.) 


WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE,  27 

And  don't  you  ever  allow  yourself  to  fall  into  Dick's 
never  sufficiently  to  be  regretted  notion  that  a  peck  or 
two  of  dust  on  a  man's  frock  coat  is  a  matter  of  minor 
importance.  I  was  very  fond  of  a  dear  dirty  fellow  of 
that  sort  once — but  he  came  to  no  good — the  dust  was  too 
heavy  on  him,  it  weighed  him  down.  P'raps  the  way 
he  whiskeyed  and  watered  it  made  it  a  little  heavier. 
Ready? 

Imp.     Yes. 

Sir.  H.  Trot  along,  then,  there's  a  good  boy — we'll  be 
back  before  lunch  anyhow. 

(The  tivo  of  them  turn  to  go  out;  Sib  H.  takes  the  Ijip's 
arm  affectionately.  As  they  do  so,  Dick  and  Phyllis 
enter.) 

Dick.  Sorry  I  was  so  long,  but  the  Chancellor  of  the 
Exchequer  was  very  complicated  this  morning. 

Phyllls.  I  wasn't  a  bit — it's  only  one  or  two  places 
in  the  adding  up  that  I  got  wrong. 

Dick.  How  the  Imp  and  I  ever  paid  for  a  single  meal 
before  you  and  your  mother  came  and  took  us  in  hand, 
beats  me.      Going  out,  Waddles? 

Sir  H.  Richard  and  I  were  going  for  a  short  consti- 
tutional to  the  club.  I  want  to  see  if  there  are  any  let- 
ters; we  shan't  be  more  than  twenty  minutes  at  the 
outside. 

Dick.  The  Doctor  and  the  Soldier-Man  are  to  be 
round  here  about  12:30. 

SiE  H.     I  know — come,  Richard. 

(Exit  as  before.) 

Dick,  (sitting  down,  resignedly)  Well,  I'm  ready  to 
hear  the  rest  now. 

Phyll.  It's  no  good  making  a  joke  of  it — you  know 
it's  true. 

Dick.    Well,  say  it  is.     I'm  living  beyond  my  means. 

Phyll.  No,  you're  not — we're  living  beyond  your 
mea  ns — look  at  the  money  you  squander  on  me — look  at 
the  money  you  squander  on  mother — look  at  the  money 
you  squander  on  the  Imp — look  at  his  clothes,  look  at 
my  clothes — then  look  at  your  own  old  things,  it's  per- 
fectly disgraceful — and  then,  Colonel  Grahame  tells  me 
you  used  to  have  a  little  shooting  in  Scotland,  and  since 
you've  supported  us  you've  had  to  give  it  up — so  with 
your  horse  and  everything  else — it's  all  for  other  people 
— never  anything  for  yourself. 


28  WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE. 

Dick.  That's  where  you're  all  wrong — it's  all  for 
myself.  I'm  very  fond  of  your  mother.  I  love  the 
Imp — and — I  (a  pause;  he  looks  up  and  meets  her  eye) 
have  the  greatest  respect  for  you — so,  when  I  see  those 
that  I'm  fond  of,  those  I  love,  and  those  I  respect,  all 
happy  and  contented,  I  puff  myself  up  with  righteous 
pride  and  wouldn't  change  places  with  the  Emperor  of 
Germany. 

Phyll.     Dick  why  do  you  respect  me? 

Dick,     (bluntly)      I  don't  know. 

Phyll.  It's  very  unkind  of  you,  I  consider.  Is  it 
because  I  owe  everything  in  the  world  to  you? 

Dick.     Good  Lord,  no! 

Phyll.     Is  it  because  I'm  such  a  good  adder  up? 

Dick.     P'raps! 

Phyll.  Or  is  it  because  the  Imp  has  graciously  con- 
sented to  make  me  his  wife? 

Dick.     Why  do  you  put  it  that  way? 

Phyll.  Isn't  that  the  proper  way  to  speak  of  his 
omnipotence?  I'm  the  sort  of  woman  who  loves  to  bow 
down  before  her  husband  and  beg  him  to  put  his  heel 
upon  her  neck. 

Dick,     (o  little  puzzled)     Are  you  really? 

Phyll.  And  the  Imp  is  to  be  my  husband,  and  I  long 
for  him  to  show  his  power  and  grind  me  beneath  an 
iron  heel  of  authority. 

Dick.  Oh,  I  don't  think  the  Imp  would  ever  do  a 
thing  like  that.  He'll  be  master  of  his  own  house  and 
all  that,  of  course,  but 

Phyll.     Will  he — do  you  really  think  he  will? 

Dick.     I  don't  think  I've  considered  the  matter. 

Phyll.  I  have;  the  Imp  and  I  will  chat  it  over  some 
day;  I  daresay  we  shall  come  to  an  understanding.  I 
think  I  must  try  and  do  something  that'll  make  you  not 
respect  me  quite  so  much. 

Dick.     Eh  ? 

Phyll.  It's  an  awful  nuisance  to  be  so  fearfully  re- 
spected— it  makes  one  feel  quite  lonely,  almost  as  if 
one  was  a  marble  statue  out  in  the  east  wind.  I  should 
have  to  put  up  with  being  respected  if  I  were  a  fright 
like  the  pictures  of  Queen  Elizabeth — but  as  I'm  only 
me — it's  different.  Couldn't  you  give  up  respecting  me 
so  fearfully?     Just  now  and  then. 

Dick.  I — I  don't  see  that  it's  possible — but — I'll  have 
a  try  if  you  like. 

Phyll.  {delightedly)  Will  you,  really?  Oh  do — 
begin  now. 

Dick.    Well — I — er — it  isn't  a  thing  one  can  do  all  at 


WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY  ONE.  29 

once,  is  it?  You'd  have  to — sort  of — give  me  a  lead, 
you  know. 

Phyll.  Would  I — oh,  yes,  I  suppose  that  is  the  best 
way — well,  suppose  I  do  this — I  put  this  arm  round  your 
shoulder,  so —  {she  is  standing  behind  his  chair)  and 
then  I  lean  my  cheek  against  the  back  of  your  head 
sympathetically,  like  this — How  does  that  feel? 

Dick.     Feels  as  if  I  was  going  to  be  electrocuted. 

Phyll.     Oh! 

Dick.  You  mustn't  ruffle  my  hair,  you  know,  coz  the 
Soldier-Man's  coming  to  lunch,  and — if — everybody's 
hair  isn't  smarmy,  he  loses  his  appetite. 

Phyll.  Oh,  bother  the  Colonel — let's  talk  about  our- 
selves. Dick,  what  is  the  thing  you  wish  for  most  in 
the  world? 

Dick.    To  see 

Phyll.  Don't  say  it —  {quickly)  I  know  exactly 
what  you're  going  to  say.  {and  with  a  choke,  she  moves 
quickly  from  him  and  goes  up  to  the  window) 

Dick.  (a  little  surprised  at  her  tone)  Do  you 
really? 

Phyll.     Yes. 

Dick.     What  was  I  going  to  say? 

Phyll.  To  see  me  and  the  Imp  happily  married, 
weren't  you? 

Dick.     Well,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  was. 

Phyll.  Oh,  I'm  so  glad — it's  the  thing  I  v/ish  for  most, 
too — isn't  it  lucky  that  you  should  make  all  these  plans 
for  us — and  we  should  be  so  pleased  about  it?  Oh,  but 
doesn't  such  happiness  make  one  nervous — one  begins 
to  dread  one's  unworthiness  and  to  feel  sure  that  some- 
thing must  happen  sooner  or  later  to  prevent  it  coming 
off.  Oh!  if  anything  happened  to  prevent  this — I — think 
I  should  die — just  fade  away  from  grief — don't  you, 
Dick? 

Dick.     Nothing  will  happen,  dear! 

Phyll.     Are  you  sure — Oh,  say  you're  quite  sure. 

Dick.     I'm  quite  sure — sure. 

Phyll.    Suppose  the  Imp  were  to  tire  of  me? 

Dick.     That's  impossible. 

Phyll.  {snuggling  up  to  him)  Is  it,  Dick — why  is 
it? 

Dick.     Because — oh — because  you  are  you,  I  suppose. 

Phyll.  Don't  you  think  if  you  were  in  the  Imp's 
place  you  might  get  a  little  tired  of  me  sometimes,  just 
a  little? 

Dick.    No — not  a  little. 


30  WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE. 

Phyll.  Ah — but  you  haven't  ever  pictured  yourself 
in  the  Imp's  place. 

Dick,     {softly,  as  if  to  himself)     Yes,  I  have  often. 

Phyll.  {Rising  and  looking  him  full  in  the  eyes) 
Have  you — pictured  yourself  married  to  me — oh,  Dick! 
{then  tenderly)      Was   it  nice? 

Dick.  {with  a  laugh)  Here — here — here — come 
along  now — Finances!  we've  chatted  enough  nonsense 
for  one  morning. 

Phyll.  Yes,  I  think  we've  done  very  well — consid- 
ering. 

Dick.  Let's  see — £473 — in  the  current  account  wasn't 
it? 

Phyll.     Yes. 

Dick,  {lightly)  Then  who  dares  to  say  the  firm 
isn't  flourishing? 

(A  pause,  Phyllis  looks  out  at  nothing  in  particular.) 

Phyll.     How  odd  it  would  be,  wouldn't  it? 

Dick,     {looking  up)     What? 

Phyll.     What  you're  always  picturing  to  yourself. 

Dick,  {aghast  at  the  notion)  You're  a  trying  young 
woman  to  make  a  casual  remark  to.  I'm  always  pic- 
turing myself  married  to  all  sorts  of  very  nice  people — 
why  I've  pictured  myself  married  to  your  mother  be- 
fore now. 

Phyll.  So  have  I — in  fact,  I've  suggested  it  to 
mother  often. 

Dick.  Thank  you,  very  much.  I  think  I  shall  get 
through  these  papers  more  quickly  in  my  own  room. 

{He  rises — so  does  she.) 

Phyll.     I'll  come  with  him. 
Dick,     {firmly)     You'll  do  no  such  thing. 
Phyll.     But  I'd  like  to. 

Dick.  I  don't  care — you've  pictured  your  mother  as 
my  wife 

{Enter  Mrs.  Eeicsox.) 

So  you've  pictured  me  as  your  other  parent,  so  perhaps 
you  will  go  a  step  further  and  picture  yourself  doing 
what  your  parent  tells  you  for  once  in  a  way. 

Phyll.     Yes,  papa  dear. 

Mrs.  E.     Papa  dear! 

Dick,     {aghast)      No,  no,  dear  lady — No — no — not  at 


WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE.  31 

all — merely   a   silly    dream.      Please    don't   consider    it 
seriously — a  dream — merely  a  dream,     (he  dashes  out) 

(Mes.  E.  looks  after  Dick,  then  back  to  his  door,  and 
says  hurriedly.) 

Mrs.    E.     Phyllis! 

Phyll.     (somewhat  startled  by  her  tone)     Mother! 

Mbs.  E.  Oh  my  dear,  I've  done  a  dreadful  thing,  I 
know  it  was  very  wrong  of  me — but  I  couldn't  help  it. 

Phyll.     Gracious — what  have   you   done? 

Mrs.  E.  I  found  a  crumpled  letter  in  the  hall — and  I 
picked  it  up  and  smoothed  it  out  to  see  who  it  belonged 
to,  and,  as  I  was  smoothing  it  out  I  accidentally  read 
a  little  and — and — oh  it  gave  me  such  a  shock  that  I 
read  it  all — I — I've  read  it  twice  or  three  times — I  don't 
know  which  and  oh — I  really  don't  know  what  to  say 
or  think. 

Phyll.     Whose  letter  was  it? 

Mrs.  E.     It  was  a  woman's  letter — (a  pause)  to  Dick. 

Phyll.     To  Dick? 

Mrs.  E.  Yes!  he — he's  making  arrangements  to  be 
married,  and — he  doesn't  want  any  of  us  to  know. 

Phyll.  (sloivly)  Making  arrangements  to  be — How 
do  you  know? 

Mrs.  E.     Oh,  there's  quite  a  lot  about  it  in  the  letter. 

Phyll.     Arrangements  to  be 

(A  pause.) 

Mrs.  E.  It  will  be  terribly  inconvenient  for  us — of 
course,  he  won't  want  us  with  him  then. 

Phyll.     Are  you  sure? 

Mrs.  E.  Oh,  perfectly  sure.  I  think  Dick  might  have 
been  more  open  with  us — after  all  we've  done  for  him. 

Phyll.  What  have  we  done  for  him,  but  sponge  on 
him  and  spend  his  money? 

Mrs.  E.  (helplessly  waving  the  letter)  Oh,  what  am 
I  to  do  with  it —  (a  pause)  I — I  think  I'll  go  and  drop 
It  behind  the  coats  again. 

Phyll.     No — give  it  to  Dick — if  it's  his. 

Mbs.  E.     My  dear,  I  daren't. 

Phyll.     Give  it  to  me,  then — I  will. 

Mrs.  E.  (a  little  nervous)  I  don't  think  you  ought 
to  read  it  dear — some  of  it  is  a  little 

Phyll.  (with  a  bitter  smile)  Don't  be  alarmed,  I 
don't  intend  to  read  it. 

Mrs.  E.     (handing  it  to  her  with  a  parting  glance  at 


32  WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE. 

it)      They  really  must  be  very  much  in  love  with  each 
other. 

(Phyllis  takes  the  letter  and  fights  against  her  desire 
to  read  it — but  eventually  she  gives  way,  and  with  a 
little  gasp,  she  reads  it  hurriedly — then  she  turns  her 
horrified  gaze  and  meets  her  mother's  eyes.) 

Phyll.     {completely  awed)      What  sort  of  woman  is 

she? 

Mrs.  B.     (feebly)     I  think  she  must  be  a  foreigner, 
I've  heard  foreign  ladies  are  frequently  very  fluent. 

(Phyllis  is  standing  staring  into  space— her  mother  is 
sitting  on  the  sofa,  in  an  attitude  of  deep  dejection 
— as  Dick  enters.) 

Dick.     I  told  you  that  the  Trinity  are  lunching  with 

us  again  to (he  stops  and  looks  at  them  both  in 

surprise) 

(Phyllis,  toithout  turning  to  him  or  looking  at  him, 
holds  out  the  letter  towards  him.) 

Phyll.    You  dropped  this. 

{He  takes  it  in  surprise — reads  it  in  silence,  then  folds 
it  up,  puts  it  in  his  pocket,  and  looks  steadily  at 
Phyllis.  ) 

Dick.     Where  did  you  find  it? 

Phyll.     Mother  found  it  behind  the  coats  in  the  hall. 

Dick.     Oh!      (a  pause)     You  have  read  it? 

Mrs.  E.     (with  a  gulp)      I  didn't  mean  to. 

Dick.     Of  course  not. 

Phyll.     (haughtily)      I  read  it  because  I  chose  to. 

Dick.     Yes — (a  pause) — Well! 

Mrs.  E.  The— I'm  very  sorry— but  this  is  very  unex- 
pected—I'm sure,  I  wish  you  every  happiness,  Mr. 
Carew,  if  you're  half  as  good  a  husband  as  you  have  been 
a  friend — your  wife  will  be  a  lucky  woman.  (holding 
out  her  hand  to  him) 

Phyll.  I  hope  you'll  be  very  happy,  Dick— very- 
very — happy.  You  deserve  to  be,  only — you  might  have 
trusted  me  with  the  secret,  mightn't  you? 

Dick.     I — I  wish  I  had. 

Phyll.  Kara  Glynesk.  It's  a  pretty  name — I  seem 
to  have  seen  it  somewhere. 


WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE.  33 

Dick.  You  may  have — it's  all  over  the  walls  and  on 
most  of  the  'buses.  She  performs  at  the  Garden  Thea- 
tre. 

Mrs.  E.     (horrified)      She  performs! 

Dick.  You've  seen  the  large,  scarlet  picture  of  her  on 
the  walls,  there's  one  on  the  boardings  opposite. 

Phyll.  That  woman!  Oh,  Dick!  (then  she  re- 
covers herself)  I  do  hope  that  you'll  both  be  very — 
very  happy. 

Dick.  Oh,  I  expect  it'll  be  all  right.  I  daresay  she  is 
not  as  red  as  she's  painted,  you  know. 

Mrs.  B.  It  was  a  lucky  thing  the  servants  didn't  find 
the  letter. 

Dick.     Very. 

Phyll.     Does  the  Imp  know? 

Dick.     Nobody  knows — but  you  and  your  mother. 

Mrs.  E.  You  may  rely  on  our  discretion — at  least,  I 
can  only  answer  for  my  own.  We  shall  be  seven  for 
lunch.  I  had  better  attend  to  my  household  duties  be- 
fore they  are  transferred  to  abler  hands  than  mine. 

Dick.     Eh? 

Mrs.  E.     The  future  Mrs.  Carewe. 

Dick.  Oh,  yes,  of  course — she  will  naturally  expecet 
to  er 

(Mrs.  E.fiToes  out  a  little  stiffly.) 

Phyll.  (stands  staring  at  the  floor,  then  at  last  she 
says,  with  an  effort)  It's  a  terrible  thing  for  a  woman 
to  have  to  acknowledge  herself  a  failure. 

Dick.     What  do  you  mean? 

Phyll.  I  don't  think  you'd  understand.  (another 
pause,  and  then  she  laughs  a  little)  Fancy  my  having 
to  say  that  of  you — I  couldn't  have  said  that  yester- 
day. 

Dick.  There  are  a  great  many  things  none  of  us  can 
understand. 

Phyll.  It  was  the  dearest  wish  of  my  heart  to  be 
your  true  friend  and — and — see  how  hopeless  it  has 
been. 

Dick.  Don't  say  that — oh,  don't  say  that,  you  hurt 
me. 

Phyll.    Haven't  you  hurt  me? 

Dick.     How?      I — I  didn't  mean  to. 

Phyll.  Of  course,  I'm  awfully  glad  you're  going  to 
get  married.  The  Imp  and  I  have  often  felt  that  the 
one  drawback  to  our  complete  happiness  was  the  fact 
that  you'd  be  left  so  lonely.      Now,  of  course — it's  all 

3 


34  WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE. 

splendid — but  what  hurts  is  that  you  didn't  let  me  share 
your  secret  with  you — that  you  didn't  trust  me.  And  ' 
all  these  years  I've  tried  so  hard  to  make  you  trust  me 
—and  see  how  miserably  I  have  failed.  (a  long  pause, 
then  she  says,  impulsively)  Dick — Dick — I  didn't  mean 
to  be  a  beast — I  hope  you'll  be  awfully  happy — I  do,  in- 
deed— I   do,  indeed. 

{The  hall  door  opens  and  the  Imp  and  Sir  H.  reappear. 
The  liip  is  seen  to  disappear  hurriedly  down  the  outer 
passage,  ivhile  Sir  H.  comes  into  the  room.) 

Sir  H.  God  bless  my  soul — young  lady,  your  future 
husband  is  a  most  erratic  young  man.  I  take  him  out 
for  a  short  walk,  and  a  serious  chat,  to  be  washed  down 
with  a  glass  of  milk — and  we  haven't  gone  a  hundred 
yards — before  he  gives  a  gasp  and  makes  a  bolt  for 
home,  saying  he'd  forgotten  his  pocket  handkerchief  or 
something  equally  infantile.  I — hallo!  Dick,  what's 
gone  wrong  with  you? 

Dick.  Nothing,  old  man — come  to  my  sanctum — we'll 
have  a  quiet  smoke. 

Phyll.     (aside  to  Dick)     Do  the  Trinity  know? 

Dick.     Not  a  word. 

Sir  H.  There's  something  in  that  prospect  that 
pleases — but  surely  we're  as  well  off  here? 

Dick.     Not  a  bit  of  it.     Come  to  my  room, 

(Dick  goes  out.) 

Sir  H.  Lord — he's  a  masterful  creature — that's  the 
way  he  used  to  order  me  about  30  years  ago. 

Phyll.     (bitterly)     Is   it? 

Sir  H.     When  he  was  a  boy 

Phyll.  Oh,  I  daresay  he  was  just  like  other  boys  as 
now  he  is  just  like  other  men. 

Sir  H.     (puzzled)     I'm  referring  to  Dick. 

Phyll.     So  am  I 

(Sir  H.  is  about  to  speak,  when  Dick  calls  him  sharply, 
and  Sir  H.  hurries  out  very  perplexed  and  with  his 
face  full  of  concern.  Phyllis  stands  motionless  for 
a  moment,  then  swiftly  presses  her  hands  to  her  tem- 
ples,, and  cries  out.) 

I   won't  believe  it — it  isn't  true.      How  could   such  a 
thing  be  true? 


WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE.  35 

(The  Imp  enters  in  a  great  state  of  agitation,  looking 
hurriedly  about  him  —  she  watches  his  movements 
listlessly  for  a  moment.) 

Lost  anything? 

Imp.     (shortly)      No. 

(A  pause.  He  glances  round  the  room  furtively — she 
watching  him;  suddenly  a  thought  flashes  into  her 
face,  and  she  gasps.) 

Phyll.  Richard— Dick!  (she  springs  to  her  feet, 
pointing  at  him)  You!— you!— Oh,  you  darling,  you 
darling! 

(And,  to  his  intense  astonishment,  she  flings  her  arms 
round  his  neck  and  hugs  him — laughing  hysteric- 
ally) 

Imp.  Here — good  gracious!  Hang  it  all,  Phyllis, 
don't  be  an  ass. 

Phyll.  (half  laughing,  half  crying)  Isn't  it  like 
him?     Oh,  isn't  it  just  like  him? 

Imp.     Like  who? 

Phyll.  Nobody.  Imp — Imp — you're  a  miserable — 
hopeless — immoral,  horrid  young  man — but,  oh,  Imp, 
you  darling — you've  made  me  fearfully  happy. 

Imp.  (gloomily)  Have  I?  I— I  suppose  I  have, 
(a  pause)  that's  the  worst  of  it. 

Phyll.     What's  that? 

Imp.  I — er — look  here,  Phyllis,  it's  no  good  going  on 
like  this,  is  it?  I — I  can't  stand  it,  you  know — it  keeps 
me  awake  at  nights  thinking  of  it — and  goodness  knows 
what  with  everything  I  want  all  the  sleep  I  can  get 
just  now. 

Phyll.     Beauty  sleep? 

Imp.  Look  here — I — that  is — you  and  I — er — I  mean 
it's  no  good  beating  about  the  bush  is  it? 

Phyll.  I  don't  understand — I — Imp,  what  is  it? — 
something  terrible  has  happened,  I  see  it  in  your  face. 
Oh— Imp,  don't,  don't  tell  me  anything  has  happened. 

Imp.  Well — you  see  it's  this  way.  (he  stops  awk- 
wardly) 

Phyll.  (with  an  assumption  of  terrified  anticipa- 
tion) Don't  say  any  more  just  yet— give  me  time — 
you're  a  man — be — be  very  gentle  with  me,  Imp — I — I'm 
only  a  weak,  loving  woman. 

Imp.     (with  a  gulp)     Well,  you  see— when  you  and  I 


36  WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE. 

— were  engaged — we — well — we  didn't  know  as  much  of 
the  world  as  we  do  now — did  we? 

(a  pause,  she  rises  and  faces  Mm.) 

(nervously)  I  say,  Phyllis,  don't  look  at  a  fellow  like 
that — it's  hard  enough  for  me  as  it  is.     Goodness  knows. 

Phyll.  (slowly)  What  is  hard  enough  for  you  as  it 
is? 

Imp.     Why,  to  have  to  tell  a  girl  that's  fond  of  you 

(he  stops  again) 

Phyll.    Don't  say  it,  Mr.  Audaine,  I  understand. 

(A  long  pause.) 

Imp.  You — you  don't  think  any  the  worse  of  me,  do 
you,  Phyllis? 

Phyll.  I — I — somehow,  I  can't  think  at  all — every- 
thing seems  dark — my  brain  won't  work — it's  numb. 

Imp.  (in  agony)  Oh,  I  say,  don't — there's  a  dear 
girl — I — know  it  must  be  awful  for  you — but — but — Oh, 
what  could  I  do,  Phyllis — I  couldn't  help  myself.  I 
fought  against  it,  I  did,  indeed. 

Phyll.     You — you — love — some  one — else? 

Imp.     I — I — couldn't  help  it,  really. 

Phyll.  Tell  me — everything.  I — I  won't  faint,  I  can 
be  very  brave. 

Imp.     I  will — there  isn't  very  much  to  tell. 

Phyll.     Who  is  she? 

Imp.     She's  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  the  world. 

Phyll.  Oh,  Imp — what  does  beauty  matter?  Is  she 
very — very  good? 

Imp.     Er — of  course,  she's  good. 

Phyll.  Is  she  very — very  religious — and  domesti- 
cated? 

Imp.  I  don't  know  about  very  religious  or  the  other 
thing.  But  she's  got  glorious  eyes.  Oh,  if  you  could 
only  look  into  her  eyes  —  you'd  know  how  good 
she  was  then. 

Phyll.  Yes,  I  expect  I  should — Imp,  I  will  not  let 
the  world  know  the — the  heartaches  I  shall  have  to  bear, 
I  will  be  very  brave,  you  shall  take  mother  and  me  to 
call. 

Imp.  Eh?  Oh,  would  you — you  see — it — it  isn't 
quite  definite  just  yet. 

Phyll.     Doesn't  she  love  you? 

Imp.  Yes,  of  course,  that  part  of  it's  all  right,  but — 
you  see,  marriage  is  a  jolly  serious  thing — it's  for  life. 


WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE.  37 

you  know.  For  good  and  all — and  all  that.  So  one 
can't  only  think  of  the  love  part — there  are  settlements 
and  things.  I  shall  have  to  settle  all  I've  got  on  her, 
of  course. 

Phyll.     Does  she  insist  on  that? 

Imp.  She  doesn't,  of  course — but — she's  got  a  friend 
— a  sort  of  business  manager,  she  calls  him — rather  a 
cad  of  a  fellow,  I  think — and — er 

Phyll.    He  does. 

Imp.  Yes — yes — He's  quite  right — and  all  that,  of 
course — but — I — well,  I  don't  exactly  know  how  much 
I've  got  to  settle.  I  expect  I'm  pretty  well  off — but — 
that,  of  course,  up  to  now  has  been  Dick's  affair. 

Phyll.     What  will  Dick  say? 

Imp.     Ah — that's  it. 

Phyll.     You  haven't  told  him? 

Imp.  Of  course,  I  haven't — not  yet — he  couldn't  un- 
derstand. 

Phyll.     Why  couldn't  he? 

Imp.  Oh,  what  could  a  fellow  like  Dick  know  about 
love,  and  all  that! 

Phyll.     Ah — what,  indeed? 

Imp.  It's  awfully  good  of  you  to  take  it  so  well, 
Phyl — it  is  indeed — not  one  girl  in  a  hundred  would 
have  been  such  a  brick. 

Phyll.  I  feel  it  very  deeply,  Richard — but  I  show 
nothing  I — I  am  very  proud;  if — if — this  blow  should 
happen  to  change  my  nature, — I — I — shall  do  something 
great — I — I'll  go  on  the  stage.  My  name  shall  be  in 
every  man's  mouth,  my  photograph  on  every  man's  man- 
telpiece, my  face  in  every  shop  window  and  my  figure 
in  full  upon  every  wall.  I've  got  a  tendency  that  way, 
I  know,  because,  when  a  week  ago  an  old  man  with  a 
long  brush  and  a  pail  pasted  on  the  boarding  opposite 
this  window  a  poster  of  a  glorious  creature — an  ideal 
woman  with  crimson  limbs  and  flame  coloured  hair, 
something  seemed  to  wake  up  inside  me,  and  as  I 
watched  the  figure  standing  boldly  out  limb  by  limb 
against  a  background  of  gauzy  drapery — I  realized  how 
narrow  was  life's  look-out  for  me.  How  could  I  hope 
to  win  and  keep  the  love  of  an  honest  man — and  now  it 
has  all  come  true.  Oh,  Imp,  Imp,  if  years  ago  I  had 
cast  to  the  winds  all  petticoats  and  prudery,  I  might 
have  proved  worthy  of  you  now.  But — but — as  it  is,  I 
must  school  myself  to  think  that  all  is  for  the  best. 

Imp.  Well,  of  course,  it  is  no  good  crying  over  spilt 
milk,  is  it,  Phyl — and — and — it's  awfully  odd  you  should 
mention  her — but — it — that's  she 


38  WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE. 

Phyll.  (looking  up  at  Mm  as  if  completely  "bewil- 
dered) She —  {the7i  in  an  awed  whisper)  The  one  on 
the  wall? 

(He  nods.) 

Oh,  Imp — she  loves  you? 

Imp.  Yes — it — it  somehow  takes  my  breath  away 
when  I  think  of  it. 

Phyll.  (after  a  pause)  Oh,  Richard,  where  will  you 
be  able  to  keep  such  a  wonderful  thing  as  that? 

Imp.  I  haven't  spoken  to  her  about  it  yet — but  I've 
been  looking  about  for  a  flat. 

Phyll.  (ivith  a  shudder)  A  flat!  You  couldn't — 
you  couldn't — that  would  be  terrible — don't  you  see? 
Can't  you  feel  how  terrible  that  would  be? 

Imp.  Well — we  must  make  a  beginning  somewhere — 
mustn't  we? 

Phyll.  It  seems  such  a  waste  to  keep  her  in  one 
flat. 

Imp.  She — she's  a  good  deal  more  homely  than  you'd 
think  she  is  from  that  picture  you  know. 

Phyll.    Ah? 

(Mrs.  Eeicson  calls  from  the  other  room.) 

Mrs.  E.  Phyllis,  dear — you'll  make  the  hock  cup, 
won't  you? 

Phyll.  Yes,  mother,  I'm  coming —  (then,  in  a  whis- 
per)    Does  she  make  hock  cup,  Richard? 

Imp.     I  don't  know. 

Phyll.  You've  drunk  so  much  of  mine — but — I  don't 
mean  to  reproach  you,  Imp,  I  don't,  indeed — perhaps  you 
wouldn't  have  if  you'd  known  how  everything  was  going 
to  turn  out. 

Imp.     (suddenly)     Great  Scott! 

Phyll.     What  is  it? 

Imp.  That  letter — I  forgot.  I  must  find  it.  I  came 
home  on  purpose. 

Phyll.  There  was  a  letter  picked  up  behind  the  coats 
in  the  hall. 

Imp.     Where  is  it? 

Phyll.     Dick  has  it. 

Imp.     (with  horror)      Dick! 

Phyll.     Does  it  matter? 

Imp.     Oh,  my  goodness — suppose  he  should  read  it! 

Phyll.  (loftily)  People  with  any  sense  of  honour 
don't  read  other  people's  letters. 


WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE.  39 

Imp.     But — but — this  was  a  fearfully  private  letter. 
Phyll.     Oh,  of  course,  that  does  make  a  difference. 

(Dick  enters — a  pause.) 

Dick,  (gravely  to  Imp)  Will  you  come  to  my  study, 
I  want  to  have  a  talk  with  you. 

Phyll.  {quickly  seeing  the  Imp's  dismay)  He  can't 
come  now.  He  has  something  very  important  to  do  for 
me. 

Dick.     But — 

Phyll.     It's  very  important,  Dick.      Go  at  once,  Imp. 

Imp.  (looking  at  her  gratefully)  I — I  must  go  now, 
Dick — I — I — won't  be  long. 

Dick.  Very  well,  (he  goes  to  the  window  and  looks 
out  listlessly) 

(Phyllis  watches  him  mischievously.) 

Phyll.  Is  it  a  good  likeness,  Dick? 
Dick,  (not  understanding)  What? 
Phyll.     The  picture  on  the  wall. 

(Dick  catches  her  meaning,  and  ivith  a  groan  pulls  the 
blind  down  and  leaves  the  window.) 

(very  gravely)  I  should  have  thought  that  you  were 
the  last  man  in  the  world  to  fall  In  love  with  that  sort 
of  woman. 

Dick,     (shortly)     Oh. 

Phyll.  Yes — it  only  proves  to  me  how  right  mother 
always  is. 

Dick.     What  do  you  mean? 

Phyll.  You  see,  mother  having  been  married — 
knows  a  great  deal  about  men. 

Dick.     Ah! 

Phyll.     And  she  isn't  a  bit  surprised. 

Dick.     Isn't  she?      I'm  glad. 

Phyll.  No — she  says  the  quiet,  fair  men  are  gener- 
ally like  that. 

Dick.     Like  what? 

Phyll.  Oh —  you  know — easily  attracted  by — by  pic- 
tures on  the  wall. 

Dick.     I  didn't  know  your  mother  was  so  observant. 

Phyll.  Because  you're  going  to  be  married,  you 
needn't  be  rude  to  my  mother. 

Dick.    I  wasn't  rude  to  your  mother. 


40  WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE. 

Phyll.  I  think  you  were — you  mayn't  have  meant  it, 
Dick — but  I  think  you  decidedly  were 

Dick.  Oh,  don't  worry  me,  dear — I — I'm  not  in  the 
mood  to-day. 

Phyll.     Poor  old  Dick — have  you  got  a  headache? 

Dick.     Yes. 

Phyll.  Then  I  won't  worry — I — I'll  be  very  sympa- 
thetic. I — I'll  let  you  tell  me  about  yourself — and — 
and  your  plans  for  the  future  with  your  wife  that  is 
to  be. 

(Dick  groans  a  little.) 

She — she  seems  to  be  very  beautiful,  Dick.  Is  she 
really  as  beautiful  as  that? 

Dick.     I  suppose  so. 

Phyll.  Oh,  you  must  know.  "  Suppose  so  "  sounds  so 
cold — perhaps  you  don't  like  talking  about  her  to  me, 
do  you  mind  talking  about  her  to  me,  Dick? 

DicK^    No. 

Phyll.  I  wonder  do  you  love  her  as  much  as  I  love 
the  Imp? 

Dick.     I  daresay. 

Phyll.  Isn't  it  beautiful,  being  in  love,  Dick — 
doesn't  it  make  one  feel  good  and  peaceful — and — and 
sunshiny.  Don't  you  glow  all  over  with  pride  and  hap- 
piness every  time  you  see  that  picture  on  the  wall. 

Dick.     No,  I  don't,  if  you  really  want  to  know. 

Phyll.  Don't  you — how  odd.  I  should  love  to  see  a 
picture  of  the  Imp  on  the  wall — that  size. 

Dick.     Would   you? 

Phyll.  Yes,  and  every  time  I  saw  a  crowd  of  ladies 
looking  at  it  I  should  say  to  myself — look  away  ladies, 
all  that  belongs  to  me.  Just  how  you  must  feel  when 
you  see  everybody  —  even  the  policeman,  looking  at 
your  future  wife's  picture.  Do  you  approve  of  the  drap- 
ery being  so — so  far  away? 

Dick.     No. 

Phyll.     I'm   glad   you   don't,   because   I   don't  either. 

Dick.  Will  you  kindly  be  quiet?  I'm  not  in  the 
mood  for  this  sort  of  talk. 

Phyll.     Dick. 

Dick.  Oh,  run  away,  there's  a  dear  —  I've  lots  of 
things  to  think  about. 

Phyll.     You've  loFt  your  temper. 

Dick.     I   daresay  I   have. 

Phyll.    Well,  as  you've  lost  your  temper  and  prac- 


WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE.  41 

tically  told  me  to  leave  the  room — I  won't  try  to  be  nice 
to  you  any  more. 

Dick.     That's  a  good  thing. 

Phyll.  Is  it?  And  I'll  tell  the  truth  to  you  now.  I 
think  it's  disgusting  your  being  in  love  with  a  woman 
like  that. 

Dick.     I  daresay. 

Phyll.  And  if  it  had  been  any  one  I'd  been  really 
fond  of 

Dick,     (rising)     If — if  it  had  been  the  Imp? 

Phyll.  (proudly)  That's  impossible,  the  Imp  is  en- 
gaged to  me,  but  if  it  had  been  the  Imp,  even  the  Imp — 
no  matter  how  much  I  loved  him,  I'd  never  have  spoken 
to  him  again. 

Dick.  Would  it  break  your  heart  never  to  speak  to 
him  again? 

Phyll.  That's  a  curious  question  for  you  to  ask,  con- 
sidering that  our  marriage  has  been  almost  entirely  ar- 
ranged by  you. 

Dick,     (sadly)     Yes — yes — I  know. 

Phyll.  I  think  it's  rather  mean  to  suggest  to  me  of 
all  people  that  the  Imp  co2(.ld  do  such  a  thing. 

Dick.     I  didn't. 

Phyll.  I'm  in  error  again,  I  suppose,  or  my  hearing 
must  be  defective. 

Dick.     Oh,  do  leave  me  alone. 

Phyll.  You  won't  be  worried  with  me  much  longer. 
After  I'm  married  and  you're  married,  I  don't  suppose 
we  shall  see  much  of  each  other,  for  I  don't  think  either 
the  Imp  or  I  would  ever  be  likely  to  be  very  friendly 
with  the  red  lady  on  the  wall. 

Dick.     Have  you  done? 

Phyll.  Very  nearly.  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that 
now  mother's  worst  suspicions  are  confirmed,  it's  just 
possible  that  her  principles  won't  allow  us  to  trespass 
on  your  hospitality  much   longer. 

Dick.  Oh,  and  how  long  has  your  mother  had  these 
suspicions  of  me,  may  I  ask? 

Phyll.     Oh,  about  three  years. 

Dick.  Ever  since  you've  been  living  here — eating  my 
bread  and 

Phyll.    We  didn't  eat  much  bread. 

Dick.  It's  a  pity  your  mother  didn't  realize  what  a 
bad  lot  I  was  a  year  or  two  sooner. 

Piiyll.  Oh,  I  think  she  did — but  she  often  said  to 
me — it  wasn't  wise  to  throw  out  dirty  water  before  we'd 
got  in  clean,      (a  pause — she  says  softly,  thinking  she 


42  WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE. 

has  gone  too  far)     Dick,  that  isn't  true.      She  never 
said  that. 
Dick,     (wearily)      No,  I  don't  suppose  she  did. 

(He  is  sitting  listlessly,  very  tired,  very  dejected,  look- 
ing at  the  pattern  on  the  carpet.  Phyllis  goes  to  the 
door — turns  and  stands  looking  lovingly  at  him  for 
a  moment,  then,  with  a  little  happy  silent  laugh,  she 
creeps  quietly  to  the  hack  of  his  chair,  throtcs  her 
arms  round  his  neck  and  kissing  him  gently,  runs 
from  the  room.  Dick  looks  up,  startled — half  rises, 
then  sinks  hack  again.) 

Now,  what  made  her  do  a  silly  thing  like  that?      (Tie 
runs  his  fingers  hopelessly  through  his  hair) 

(Sir  H.  comes  in  from  the  study.) 

Sir  H.     Isn't  he  about? 

Dick.     He's  just  gone  out  to  get  something  for  Phyl. 

Sir  H.     It's  a  bit  of  a  facer,  isn't  it? 

Dick.  On  my  soul,  I  don't  quite  know  where  to  be- 
gin. 

Sir  H.  I  don't  expect  it's  anything  very  serious — 
boys  will  be  boys. 

Dick.  He  is  engaged  to  be  married  to  the  sweetest 
girl  in  England. 

Sir  H.     Oh,  I  don't  defend  it. 

Dick,  (going  to  the  windoio  and  pulling  up  the  hlind 
— then  again  remembering  the  poster)  Damn  the 
poster. 

(The  hell  rings.) 

There  he  is. 

(The  Maid  goes  to  the  hall  door  and  opens  it.) 

Doctor,     (heard  off)     Any  one  at  home? 
Dick.     It's  Terry  and  the  Soldier-Man. 

(He  goes  out  into  the  hall.) 

Morning,  you  fellows — You're  just  in  time. 

S.  Man.     Morning,  Dick— where's  Waddles? 

Dick.  He's  here — we— we're  all  here,  you're  just  in 
time  for  a  council  of  war.      (lie  comes  doivn) 

Doctor,     (to  the  S.  Man)     Corporal — it's  all  out. 


WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE.  43 

S.  Man.    Council  of  war — good — what's  the  trouble, 
Dick? 
Dick.     Sit  down! 

{They  sit  down.) 

Read  this. 

S.  Man.     (glancing  at  letter)      To  you? 
Dick.     No,  to  the  Imp. 

(He  hands  the   letter  to  the  Doctor,  who  reads  it  in 
silence — and  gives  a  low  ivhistle.) 

Doctor.     Shall  I 


Dick,     (grimly)     Pass  it  on. 

(The  Doctor  hands  it  to  Col.  Grahame,  who  also  reads 
it  and  grunts — offers  it  to  Waddles.) 

Sir  H.     Not  again,  thank  you. 

(The  Soldier-Man  puts  it  on  the  table  and  there  is  a  mo- 
ment's silence.) 

Doctor.     What  sort  of  looking  woman  is  she? 
Dick.     Judge! 

(He  goes  up  to  the  window,  the  three  men  follow  him 
and  follow  the  direction  of  his  pointing  finger.) 

Sir  H.  (gazes  placidly  at  the  poster,  then  murmurs 
to  himself)     Very — very  soothing. 

S.  Man.     The  Firefly!  by  all  that's  damnable. 

Dick.     Is  she 

S.  Man.  (answering  the  unspoken  question)  Quite 
one  of  the  most  notorious. 

Dick,  (facing  the  three  silent  men)  And  now  I 
shall  be  glad  to  know  what  we  are  going  to  do. 

Doctor.     How  did  you  find  it  out? 

Dick.  Mrs.  Ericson  picked  up  that  letter,  read  it, 
handed  it  on  to  Phyllis,  who  also  read  it  and  handed  it 
on  to  me. 

Doctor.  To  Phyllis!  Good  God— and  she  engaged 
to  him! 

S.  Man.     Poor  girl!      What  a  blow  for  her. 

Dick.  That's  the  one  slice  of  luck  in  the  whole  mis- 
erable business. 

Doctor.    Doesn't  she  care  for  him? 


44  WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE. 

Dick.     Of  course,  she  worships  him. 

DocTOB.     Then  where's  the  slice  of  luck? 

Dick.     They  think  the  lady  is  in  love  with  me, 

Omnes.     What! 

Dick,  (taking  up  letter)  "Dick."  I'm  Dick.  The 
Imp's  Richard,  too,  but  he's  never  Dick  to  us — he's  the 
Imp.  So  I'm — thanks  to  that  trivial  misunderstanding 
— the  future  husband  of  that  scarlet  horror  stuck  upon 
the  wall.  However,  that  doesn't  matter,  my  shoulders 
are  broad  enough  to  bear  even  that.  I'm  all  right,  it's 
the  Imp's  got  to  be  looked  after,  or  else  he'll  burn  his 
fingers.  Good  God,  I've  rescued  from  danger  before  I — 
I've  seen  him  through  scarlet  fever — diphtheria — all  the 
other  ills  of  his  babyhood — this  is  a  very  similar  sort 
of  complaint,  and  if  we  can't  pull  him  through,  his 
father  was  a  poor  judge  of  guardians  when  he  gave  the 
boy  to  us.  We'll  talk  to  him — we'll  open  his  juvenile 
eyes — we'll 

S.  Man.  Do  you  suppose  we'll  succeed  in  convincing 
him? 

(A  long  paiise.)   . . 

Dick,  (wearily)  No.  I  don't  suppose  we  shall — 
at  first.  We've  got  to  put  this  thing  right,  ye  know. 
We're  responsible  to  Charlie  for  the  boy's  life  and  we'll 
take  jolly  good  care  he  doesn't  spoil  it  by  this  sort  of 
thing. 

S.  Man.  Phyllis  must  be  considered — wouldn't  it  be 
as  well  to  let  their  marriage  be  broken  off  for  the  pres- 
ent? 

Dick.  Man  alive,  if  she  knew  he'd — he'd  turned  his  at- 
tention to  this  sort  of  thing,  she'd  never  speak  to  him 
again — she's   as    proud    as   Lucifer. 

Sir  H.     Are  you  sure  she  loves  him? 

Dick.  Certain.  I  asked  her  just  now — she  was 
rounding  on  me  about  it — telling  me  how  contemptible 
she  thought  it  all — and — and^and  I  asked  her  what 
she'd  have  done  if — if  it  had  been  the  Imp — and  she  said 
that  she'd  give  him  up  and  hate  him  forever — though 
she  knew  it  would  break  her  heart. 

S.  Man.  Um!  That  does  make  it  awkward,  doesn't 
it? 

Sir  H.  Well,  there's  fact  one  she  loves  him — now  then 
— fact  two  is  he  doesn't  love  her.  And  fact  three,  they 
certainly  ought  not  to  be  married  under  such  condi- 
tions. 

Dick.    No,  no — you're  going  all  wrong.     You're  wrong 


WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE.  45 

in  saying  lie  doesn't  love  her— he  does  in  his  heart  of 
hearts.  This  (pointing  to  the  window) — sort  of  thing 
—is— isn't  pleasant,  of  course,  but  it— it's  only  his  youth 
—you  know.  We  all  seem  to  go  through  it— at  least  so 
I'm  told.  When  he  finds  out  what  it's  all  worth  he'll 
sicken  of  it,  damn  quick,  and  then  he'll  marry  and  set- 
tle down — and — and — be  the  man  we  all  want  to  see  him. 

Doctor.  Do  you  think  that  sort  of  thing  (pointing  to 
poster)  is  a  necessary  part  of  a  young  man's  education? 

Dick.  Certainly  not,  but  now  that  he  has  tumbled 
into  the  water,  let's  pick  him  out  and  dry  him  as  quickly 
as  we  can. 

Sir  H.     I  don't  think  it  will  do  him  any  harm. 

Doctor.     And  I'm  sure  it  won't  do  him  any  good. 

(The  door  opens  and  the  Imp  enters  quietly — he  glances 
at  the  four  men — closes  the  door  behind  him  and 
comes  sloioly  down  into  the  room.) 

Iirp.     Yon— {he  clears  his  throat)      You  are  all  very 
solemn — are  you  talking  about  me? 
Dick.     Yes. 

Imp.     I — I  dropped  a  letter. 
Dick,     Here  it  is. 

(The  Imp  takes  it,  folds  it  up — and  puts  it  in  his  pocket 
— he  then  strolls  with  affected  nonchlance  to  the  fire- 
place and  lights  a  cigarette — a  pause.) 

(slowly)     I  have  read  your  letter. 

Imp.  (looking  at  him  as  if  greatly  astonished)  You 
have  read  my  letter? 

Dick,     (gravely)     Yes. 

Sir  H.     We've  all  read  your  letter. 

Imp.  Really?  I  always  thought  there  were  some 
things  gentlemen  did  not  do. 

Dick,  (gently)  Don't  let's  begin  like  this.  You 
know  that  we  four  would  do  anything  in  the  world  to 
help  you. 

Imp.     Even  to  reading  my  letters.   I'm  grateful. 

S.  Man.  So  you  ought  to  be.  There  are  damn  few 
boy's  letters  I'd  take  the  trouble  to  read. 

Imp.     I  hope  you  all  found  it  interesting. 

Doctor,     (slowly)     We  did  that. 

(A  pause — none  of  the  Quadrity  knoio  quite  how  to  he- 
gin — the  Imp's  attitude  has  rather  upset  their  calcula- 
tions.     The   Imp   blows  a  few  rings   of  smoke  and 


46  WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE, 

waves  them  aside  gracefully  with  his  hand,  then  says 
enquiringly.) 

Imp.     Well — and  now? 

Dick.     Now  we — we  want  you  to  tell  us  all  about  it. 

Imp.     Surely,  the  letter  doesn't  leave  me  much  to  tell. 

Dick.  It  leaves  a  great  deal.  Come,  come,  old  man — 
we've  all  been  young  'uns  in  our  time — let's  have  your 
version  of  this  little  love  story. 

Imp.  There  is  very  little  to  tell.  I  have  asked  Miss 
Glynesk 

S.  Man.     The  Firefly. 

Imp.  (gives  him  a  glance  and  continues)  I  have 
asked  Miss  Glynesk  to  be  my  wife,  and  she  has  done  me 
the  honour  to  say  all  right. 

Sir  H.     Oh,  has  she? 

Sir  H.      Devil  doubt  her! 

Dick.  Yes — I — I  gathered  that  from  the  letter — but — 
but — you  see,  old  man — there  are  many  things  to  be 
considered — things,  that  in  your  impetuosity  you  may 
have  overlooked.  Now  here  we  are — four  sober-minded, 
middle-aged  men — whose — well,  I  know  I'm  in  this 
speaking  for  myself — whose  principal  thought  in  life 
is  to  try  and  make  things  smooth  for  you.  That's  so, 
isn't  it,  you  chaps? 

S.  Man.     Certainly. 

Sir  H.     Quite  so. 

Doctor.     It  is  that. 

Imp.  I  know,  of  course,  I  know  all  about  that,  and 
I  don't  want  you  to  think  I'm  a  conceited  young  ass — but 
there  comes  a  time  in  every  man's  life  when  his  own 
judgment  is  of  greater  use  to  him  than  other  people's. 

Dick.     Perhaps  this  is  not  that  time. 

Imp.  I  think  it  is.  {then  there  is  a  pause  and  the 
Imp  throws  his  cigarette,  half  finished,  into  the  fire- 
place) 

Dick,  (slowly)  What  does  your  own  judgment 
prompt  you  to  do? 

Imp.     To  marry  the  woman  I  love. 

S.  Man.     The  Firefly. 

Dick.  She — she  is  a  good  deal  older  than  you  are — 
isn't  she,  old  man? 

Imp.     She  is  a  little  older. 

Dick,  (slowly)  And  I  hear— that  she  has  seen  a 
good  deal  of  the  world. 

Imp.     I  believe  she  has  travelled  a  great  deal. 

Sir  H.  (chiming  in)  I  suppose  you  know  that  peo- 
ple say 


WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE.  47 

Imp.  (interrupting)  I  should  have  thought,  Sir 
Horace,  you'd  have  learnt  by  this  time  to  pay  no  atten- 
tion to  what  "people  say  " — for  myself,  when  I  know  a 
person,  I  form  my  own  judgment — and — "  People  can 
say  "  what  they  please — for  all  I  care. 

Dick.  You're  right — you're  quite  right,  of  course — 
but  in  this  instance 

Imp.  {breaking  in)  Look  here.  I  know  you  were 
all  great  friends  of  my  father— and  you've  been  jolly 
good  to  me  and  all  that,  but  on  this  subject,  I  may  as 
well  tell  you  I  shouldn't  have  allowed  even  him  to  in- 
terfere— it's  my  affair,  and  I've  made  up  my  mind  about 
it. 

Dick,  (gently)  You're  wrong,  old  man — nothing  in 
this  life  is  ever  entirely  one's  own  affair.  Nobody  can 
ever  say,  I  stand  alone — every  step  you  take  in  life, 
whether  towards  evil  or  towards  good,  reacts  upon  your 
surroundings.  Now  I — oh,  good  God!  you  know  I  don't 
want  to  preach — I  couldn't,  I'm  not  built  that  way — 
I  only  want  you  to  be — well,  here  we  are,  five  fellows — 
let's  all  talk  this  matter  over,  find  out  what's  the  best 
thing  to  do  and  make  up  our  minds,  whether  we  like 
it  or  not,  to  do  it.  If  it's  best  for  you  to  marry  this 
lady — marry  her,  and  good  luck  to  you — if  it's  best  not 
to  marry  her — don't;  let's  hammer  it  out  amongst  us. 
Your  father — the  dearest,  bravest,  truest  chap  that  ever 
stepped  in  shoe  leather — gave  you  into  our  keeping  when 
you  were  so  high — we  swore  among  ourselves  to  make 
you  worthy  of  him — and  we're  going  to  try  to  keep  our 
word. 

Imp.  Is  it  making  me  worthy  of  him  to  try  and  make 
me  break  my  promise  to  a  woman? 

S.  Man.  (quietly)  Which  woman — which  promise, 
you  have  given  two. 

(The  shot  goes  home.  The  Imp  looks  at  him  for  a  mo- 
Tuent,  then  turns  away — and  leans  his  head  against 
his  arms  on  the  mantelpiece,  then  speaks  brokenly, 
after  a  pause.) 

Imp.  I — you  can't  ask  me  to  marry  a  woman  I  don't 
love— I  thought  I  did  once — but  I  didn't— I  know  that 
now. 

S.  Man.     You  got  engaged  to  her. 

Imp.  I — I  was  a  fool — but — but  everybody  seemed  to 
think  it  was  all  right — Dick  wished  it — you  all  wished 
it — and — and —  (in  a  low  voice)  she  seemed  to  wish  it, 
too. 


48  WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE. 

Sib  H.  {jumps  up,  excited)  You  young  cad — do 
you 

Dick,     (restraining  him)      Hush! 

Imp.  (breaking  in  hotly)  Oh,  I  don't  mean  that  she 
said  so.  I  merely  mean,  everybody  seemed  to  expect  it 
— and — and — we  drifted  into  it.  I'm  very  sorry  and  all 
that,  of  course — but  it's  done,  and  it  can't  be  helped. 

Dick.     It  can  be  helped.     Now,  listen • 

Imp.  (getting  rather  flustrated — quickly)  Oh,  it's 
no  good  talking — you  may  just  as  well  realize  that  in 
this  matter  I'll  listen  to  no  one.  I  know  what  a  good 
friend  you've  been  to  me,  Dick,  and  I'm  grateful — but 
I'm  no  longer  a  boy.  I'm  old  enough  to  manage  my 
own  affairs,  and  I  intend  to  do  it. 

S.  Man.  (breaking  in  brightly)  Of  course — we're 
all  on  the  wrong  tack,  Dick,  old  fellow,  we've  been 
mounting  the  high  horse  and  talking  to  the  Imp  as  if  he 
were  a  child.  He  isn't,  he's  a  man  of  the  world  as  we 
are — except  that  he's  handicapped  by  being  in  love — we 
aren't  .  Now  then.  Imp — let's  have  your  view  of  the 
situation  as  a  man  of  the  world.  So  it  is  absolutely  es- 
sential to  your  happiness  that  you — er — marry  this 
lady? 

Imp.     (shortly)      Yes. 

S.  Man.  Then  you  must  have  put  your  case  before 
her  very  clumsily. 

Imp.     (fiercely)     What  do  you  mean? 

S.  Man.  I  don't  think  she  has  ever  been  approached 
with  ceremony  before. 

Imp,     (starts  forward  furiously)      You  coward! 

(All  the  men  rise  except  the  Soldieb  Man.) 

'D(silencing  them  all  with  a  shout)      Stop  there!' 

Imp.  (passionately)  Don't  believe  it,  Dick — don't 
believe  it — it  isn't  true. 

Dick.  Hush!  Hush!  Let's  talk  it  out  quietly — for 
pity's  sake. 

Imp.  I  won't  stand  quietly  here  and  hear  the  woman 
I  love  insulted,  even  by  you. 

S.  Man.  Quite  right — and  if  I  told  you  certain  facts 
concerning  this  lady's  past,  and  gave  you  my  honour 
that  they  were  facts,  you  wouldn't  believe  me. 

Imp.     I'd  know  that  they  were  lies. 

S.  Man.  Quite  right.  Now  that  we  know  where  we 
are — I  can  hold  my  tongue. 

Imp.     You'd  better. 


WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE.  49 

{The  Soldiee-Man  laughs — there  is  going  to  he  another 
outbreak — again  Dick  checks  it.) 

Dick.     Stop  this,  I  say. 

Imp.     Yes,  I  will  stop  this  once  and  for  all — I'll  go. 

Dick.     Where? 

Imp.  To  her!  I'll  get  her  to  fix  our  wedding  day 
once  and  for  all. 

Dick,  (springs  to  the  door  and  intercepts  him)  Not 
yet.     Not  yet! 

Imp.  You  can't  keep  me.  I'm  of  age — I  do  as  I 
choose  now. 

Dick.     Listen 

Imp.  I've  listened  till  I'm  tired— what's  the  use  of 
staying  here  with  my  hands  behind  my  back  while  the 
woman  I  love  is  insulted? 

Dick.    No — no! 

Imp.  (stamping)  I  say  yes —  (a  pause,  then  very 
quietly)      Let  me  go,  please,  Dick. 

Dick,  (gently)  We — we're  all  a  little  excited  now, 
old  man — when  you  come  back 

Imp.     (slowly)      I  shall  not  come  back. 

(A  pause.) 

Dick,  (looks  at  him  and  at  last  speaks  with  an  ef- 
fort)     You  will  not  come  back? 

Imp.  What's  the  use?  I  love  her — nobody  under- 
stands. 

Dick.     You — you  want  to  go  away  from  me? 

Imp.  I  don't  "  want "  to.  You  leave  me  no  choice — 
you  believe  what  he  says —  (he  points  to  Col.  Grahame 
— a  pause)      Don't  you? 

Dick,     (slowly)      Yes. 

Imp.  (with  a  little  choke)  Then  wouldn't  you  de- 
spise me  if  I  stayed? 

(There  is  a  pause  and  Dick  slowly  moves  away  from 
the  door  and  down  towards  the  fireplace.  The  Imp 
stands  irresolute  for  a  moment,  as  if  there  was  some- 
thing he  would  like  to  say— but  the  thought  fails 
to  find  expression,  and  h"  turns  to  go — at  the  door 
he  stops  and  turns  to  Dick  pleadingly.) 

You — you've  been  very  good  to  me,  Dick — I — I'm  going 
to  her — won't  you  wish  me  luck? 

Dick,  (after  a  pause,  says  huskily)  I — I'm  think- 
ing of  your  father— if  she  is  worthy  of  him— worthy  of 


50  WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE. 

you — then,   good   luck   to   you,    Imp — good   luck.       {he 
buries  his  head  on  his  folded  arms) 

Imp.  (gladly)  Thanks,  Dick,  thanks.  I'll  tell  her 
what  you  say.  (and  he  turns  and  darts  out,  slamming 
the  door) 

(They  all  rise  except  Dick.) 

S.  Man.  Great  Scott,  Dick — what  do  you  mean  by 
that? 

Dick.  God  knows — the  boy  may  be  right,  after  all — 
he  knows  the  woman — I   don't. 

S.  Man.  (emphatically)  I  do — she's  been  the  ruin 
of  half  a  dozen  men  of  my  acquaintance. 

Dick.     No — no! 

S.  Man.  I  tell  you,  yes;  if  the  boy  wants  to  marry 
her,  she'll  marry  him — spend  his  money — then  he  who 
bids  more  will  carry  her  off,  husband  or  no  husband. 
She's  for  sale,  I  tell  you — for  sale.  To  be  bought  as 
one  would  buy  a  flower. 

Dick,  (starting  up  fiercely — striking  the  table  with 
his  fist)  Is  she?  Then,  I'll  buy  her — I'll  buy  her — 
she's  mine — she  shan't  belong  to  him  and  wreck  his  life 
— she  shall  belong  to  me,  if  the  price  is  high — stand  by 
me 

SiK  H.     Mine's  yours. 

Doctor.     And  mine. 

S.  Man.     And  mine! 

Dick.    Good  men!      The  Trinity  sees  this  through. 


QUICK  CURTAIN. 


WHEN  WE  WEKE  TWENTY-ONE.  51 


ACT    III. 

Scene. — A.  gaudily  furnished  room.  Many  photographs 
of  The  Firefly.  A  flaming  red  poster  pinned  to  the 
curtains;  a  table,  carpet  on  the  centre  of  stage,  and 
much  debris  about;  soda  water  bottles  and  a  tanta- 
lus lying  on  the  floor — the  room  giving  every  evi- 
dence of  having  been  the  scene  of  a  disturbance. 

(Various  lithos  of  Kara  on  walls  and  floor  in  her  various 
big  parts.  Babette,  a  French  maid,  viciously  pretty, 
heard  expostulating  in  Kaba's  room.) 

Bab.  Oh,  Madame,  mais  c'est  impossible — vraiment, 
vraiment,  c'est  impossible. 

Kara,  (off)  I  don't  care  if  it  is — it's  got  to  be  done. 
Look  alive  now,  look  alive! 

(  Babette  enters. ) 

Bab.  Oh,  I  'ate  air.  I  ate  'air!  An'  she  'ave  spilt 
de  table — Oh,  I  say — too  bad — too  bad — too  bad!  (pick- 
ing up  the  things)  She  'ave  crack  'im — so  stoopid!  so 
very  stoopid!      I  'ate  air! 

(Bells  rings.) 

Dat  is  Mistaire  'Ughie's  ring.      Oh,  he  will  catch  it  'ot 
— so  'ot!  pretty  quick,  I  tell  'im! 

(Goes  up  and  out  at  back.      Hall  door  heard  to  open 
and  Hughie's  voice.) 

Babette.     Hello,  Babette,  what's  all  the  bobbery? 

Bab.     Oh,  mon  Dieu,  mon  Dieu,  mon  Dieu! 

Hughie.  (enters)  Mon  Dieu-ing  ain't  enlightening, 
Babette.  I  repeat,  what's  the  bobbery?  (he  looks 
round  ot  the  disordered  room  )  Hello — been  havin'  a  bit 
of  a  beano  here,  ain't  yon? 

B.\B.    Beano!      Oh,  mon  Dieu!  dat  word  is  much  too 


52  WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE. 

little.  You  know  quite  soon — pretty  dam  quick.  Vas 
Madame's  brougham  at  ze  door? 

HuGHiE.     Yes. 

Bab.  Good!  {she  goes  to  door)  Ze  carriage  is  wait- 
ing,  Madame. 

Kara.     Let  it  wait! 

Bab.  (picks  up  some  broken  china)  Look,  she  crack 
'im  in  her  rage.  I  sink  she  crack  you,  too,  pretty  dam 
quiclt,  too. 

HuGHiE.  Crack  me?  Really  that  seems  superfluous, 
considering  she  broke  me  a  few  years  ago.  Again  I  en- 
quire solicitously,  what  is  the  bobbery? 

Bab.     {with  meaning)      I  think  you  know. 

HuGHiE.     "Well,  if  you  put  it  like  that — I  think  I  do. 

Bab.     She  sent  for  you,  eh? 

HuGHiE.  To  be  sent  for  by  the  Firefly  is  a  distinc- 
tion. 

Bab.    This  time  it  is  an  extinction,  my  frien'. 

HuGHiE.     Your  English  is  getting  quite  encyclopaedic. 

Bab.  Encyclopsedic?  I  do  not  know  him.  Madame 
have  sent  for  ze  ozair  damn  fool,  too. 

HuGHiE.     {sitting  up)      Wallis? 

Bab.  Wallis.  Oui,  oui,  oui — oh  yes.  She  crack  'im, 
too,  I  'ope  so. 

HuGHiE.  Again  superfluous.  Our  firefly  likewise 
broke  him  beyond  any  riveting  exactly  four  months  be- 
fore she  performed  the  same  operation  for  me — but,  tell 
me  why  this  craving  to  jump  upon  the  pieces  now? 

Bab.  You  know,  you — you  little  peeg — you  have 
played  a  trick  on  us.  What  was  it  you  both  tell  her 
about  zat  nice  little  boy — ze  Imp  boy? 

HuGHiE.  Young  Audaine?  Oh,  only  a  few  facts  about 
his  great  wealth. 

Bab.  {tvith  a  squeal)  His  wealth — is — oh — if  you 
was  not  so  infant,  so  young,  I  would  like  to  say  some 
sings  in  my  own  language.  It  was  your  plot — Mr. 
Wallis'  plot — his  plot — little  damn  fool!  He  swear  he 
was  so  rich,  so  rich — five  thousand  a  year  to  come  soon. 
She,  Madame,  lose  her  head — she  believe,  and  she  get 
what  you  call  hustle,  and  she  have 

HuGHiE.  {springing  to  his  feet  with  a  shout  of  de- 
light) Not  married  him — don't  tell  me  she's  married 
him! 

Bab.  I  tell  you  nozing.  I  leave  dat  to  Madame — she 
tell  you  all  damn  quick. 

{Bell  rings,  and  a  faint  cough  heard.) 


WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE.  53 

Mr.  Wallis!      I  know  'is  cough — stoopid,  stoopid,  silly 
cough. 

HuGHiE.  (almost  to  himself)  By  Jove!  if  we've 
bluffed  Ler  into  that!  what  a  score!  Jumping  Jehosha- 
phat,  what  a  score! 

(Wallis  enters,  an  immaculate  youth.) 

Wallis.  Hello,  Hughie!  Firefly  telegraphed  for  me 
to  call. 

HuGHiE.  And  for  me.  Wallis,  my  little  one,  she's 
swallowed  it,  hook  and  all,  hook  and  all — we  can  call 
quits  at  last. 

Wallis.     What!      Has  she — you  don't 

Hughie.     And  our  friend,  the  amorous  youth 

Wallis.     She's  not 

Hughie.  She  has — she's  married  him!  She's  mar- 
ried him!  Christians  awake!  ain't  there  going  to  be 
a  row. 

Bab.  Zare  has  been  a  row  already.  She  'ave  turned 
'im  out  of  doors. 

Hughie.     Already! 

Bab.     Dey  was  married  dis  morning. 

Wallis.     Who  was  present? 

Bab.  Only  I — me — was.  Oh,  it  is  a  grand  secret.  No 
one  at  all  know,  save  Madame,  Monsieur  et  moi. 

Hughie.  My  word,  when  his  people  find  out,  won't 
there  be  a  shindy! 

Bab.  He  have  not  told  zem  yet.  By  Gar,  I  don't 
think  he  evaire  tell  anyone  at  all  now — after  what  oc- 
cur zis  afternoon. 

Hughie.  You  mean  to  say  she  turned  him  out  of 
doors? 

Bab.     Ah,  oui — pourquoi  non? 

Wallis  But  her  husband — whoop!  wouldn't  I  have 
liked  to  have  been  present! 

Hughie.  Get  on,  Babette,  you're  slow  enough  to  be 
English.     Tell  us  what  happened? 

Bab.  Well,  zis  is  it.  Affaire  ze  ceremony,  zay  come 
home  'ere  and  have  a  little  lunch — quite  charming — 
oh,  quite  nice — but  Monsieur  'e  seem  to  'ave  somesing 
on  his  mind. 

Wallis.     Should  think  he  had  just! 

Bab.  But  still  all  vaire  charming,  vaire  nice!  After 
lunch  zey  come  in  here  and  Madame  Kara  smoke  a 
cigarette — 'e  light  it  for  her — vaire  nice — vaire  charm- 
ing— zen,  all  of  a  sudden,  Madame  take  his  hand.  For- 
give her,  she  say,  she  very  extravagant  woman,  and  she 


54  WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE. 

go  to  ze  bureau  and  she  take  out  all  zese.  (pointing  to 
letters  of  all  sorts  and  conditions  that  are  scattered 
about  the  room) 

HuGHiE.     What  are  those? 

Bab.    Bills,  bills,  bills — all  zem  is  damn  nasty  bills. 
Oh,  I  'ate  bills!      And  she  says  to  Monsieur,  in  such  a 
sweet,  sweet  way,  dat  he  will  forgive  her  not  mention- 
ing zem  before — zey  slip  'er  memory — and  she  know  he. 
will  pay  zem  all  at  once — so  nice  of  'im. 

Wallis.     Go  on — go  on — this  is  great! 

HuGHiE.     What  then? 

Bab.  Zen  it  was  mos'  surprisin' — suddenly  he  springs 
up  an'  zrow  out  'is  arms,  and  say  wiz  passion:  "  I  'ave 
deceive  you,  I  am  not  rich  man,  only  poor  man  rich  in 
love.  I  love  you,  I  love  you,  I  am  liar,  cheat,  black- 
guard, but  I  love  you — all  I  'ave  is  I  love  you. 

HuGHiE.    ■) 
AND        I  And  then? 

Wallis.    j 

(A  pause — Babette  says  very  quietly.) 
Bab.     (quaintly)      You  'ave  met  Madame! 

HUGHIE.    ] 

AND        y  What   happened? 

Wallis.    ) 

Bab.  (softly)  Oh,  a  few  little  sings  'appen— just  a 
few.  (she  points  to  broken  china)  I  feel  sorry  for  ze 
boy — ze — Oh,  I  mus'  say  I  feel  sorry  for  ze  husband — 
she  strike  him  full — once,  twice,  three  times. 

HuGHiE.     (quietly)      What  did  he  do? 

Bab.  (gravely)  He  stand  quite  still — ver'  white — 
ver'  white  and  ver',  ver  still,  and  look  at  her  wiz  his 
great,  sad  eyes,  and — and  he  bow  his  head. 

(Bell  rings  violently.) 

Madame'a  bell!     I  come,  pretty  so  damn  quick,  I  come. 

(She  exits  hurriedly.) 

HuGHiE.  By  Jove,  who  would  have  thought  she'd 
have  been  fooled  so  easily? 

Wallis.  Greed,  old  son,  greed — they're  all  alike. 
Dangle  a  golden  plum  and  they'll  gollop  it  down  and 
chance  the  indigestion — and  I  must  say  we  played  our 
cards  very  well.  There  was  every  excuse  for  her  be- 
lievin'  the  young  'un  was  a  bally  little  gold  mine. 


WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE.  55 

HuGHiE.  An'  of  course,  when  he  didn't  deny  it, 
she 

Wallis.  Oh,  we're  brainy  little  fellahs,  both  of  us — 
ain't  we,  little  son? 

HuGHiE.  I'm  brainy  enough  to  think  it  wiser  to 
(pantomimes  "getting  out'')  before  her  ladyship  has 
her  little  chat  with  us.  You  see,  one  must  never  neg- 
lect precedent,  and  she  hit  him  —  once,  twice,  three 
times.  And  I  never  was  good  in  the  ring.  Will 
you 

Wallis.  Oh,  let's  see  her — she'll  be  deuced  waxy — 
and  the  laugh's  up  to  us  now. 

HucHiE.     But  the  one,  two,  three 

Wallis.  Chance  it,  little  son — we're  both  of  us  pretty 
dodgy.  I  wonder  what  she'll  do  about  it?  Married  to 
that  kid  without  a  farthing — gad,  it's  a  rare  lark!  What 
the  devil  will  his  people  say  when  they  hear  of  it!  It's 
pretty  rough  on  them. 

HuGniE.  Yes,  she  isn't  exactly  an  acquisition  to  a 
domestic  circle. 

(HuGHiE  has  been  up  at  back  helping  himself  to  whiskey 

and  soda.) 

Have  one?  It's  about  the  last  time  we'll  drink  with  the 
Firefly — we  ain't  so  popular  as  we  were. 

Wallis.  Better  fortify  myself  for  the  meeting.  (he 
helps  himself)      Heard  the  news  about  Jimmy  Hirsch? 

HuGHiE.     Bankrupt? 

Wallis.  No,  on  top  again — cleared  fourteen  thou, 
over  a  Caranian  deal.  He'll  be  buzzin'  around  the  Fire- 
fly again  before  you  know  where  you  are — that's  my 
prophecy,  little  son. 

HuGHiE.  If  Jimmy  Hirsch  has  got  the  dibs  that 
means  good-bye  to  little  Hubby.  'Pon  my  soul,  I  b'lieve 
Jimmy  Hirsch  is  the  only  man  Firefly  ever  cared  a  brass 
button  for. 

(Bell  rings.) 

HuGHiE.     Perhaps  this  is  the  redoubtable  James. 
Wallis.     What'll  he  say  to  the  marriage? 
HuGHiE.     That  also  will  be  interesting  to  observe. 

(Babette  crosses  and  opens  door.     A  handsome,  rather 
loud  voiced  girl  enters  in  ball  dress.) 

Budgie.    Isn't  your  mistress  ready,  Babette? 


56  WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE. 

Bab.    Not  yet — not  quite  yet — it  is  only  her  'air. 

HUGHIE.      ) 

AND         >•  Hello,  Budgie. 

Wallis.     ) 

Budgie.  Hello,  you  chaps,  aren't  you  coming  to 
Covent  Garden? 

HuGHiE.     Later. 

Wallis.  Kara  has,  what  she  is  pleased  to  call,  busi- 
ness with  us. 

(Kara  calls.) 

Kara.    Babette!     Babette! 

Bab.     I  come. 

HuGHiE.     Oh,  we  must  tell  Budgie — it's  too  rich. 

Budgie.     Fire  away. 

HuGHiE.  You  know  the  young  chap  Kara  met  at  the 
races — you  were  there. 

Budgie.     The  boy  who  blushed  if  one  said  "  Boo." 

Wallis.  That's  the  chap — ward  of  a  barrister, 
Carewe. 

Budgie.     Well,  what  of  it? 

HuGHiE.  It's  the  rarest  thing  you  ever  heard — come 
here  and  I'll  whisper.  Kara  married  him  secretly  this 
morning,  so  I'm  told. 

Budgie.     What!! 

Wallis.  Isn't  it  regal?  I  tell  you,  Hughie  and  I  de- 
serve a  medal — we  spoofed  her  clean. 

Budgie.  Kara  married  him?  Nonsense!  He  hasn't 
a  sixpence. 

HuGUiE.  We  know  that — that's  where  the  joke  comes 
in.  Our  Firefly  was  led  to  believe  that  the  young  'un 
was  a  bally  little  gold  mine. 

Budgie,  (amazed  and  delighted)  You  don't  mean  to 
say  she — oh,  go  on — go  on — what  a  lark! 

Wallis.  'Course,  Hughie  and  I  are  very  fond  of  the 
Firefly,  but  well,  she  didn't  let  either  of  us  down  too 
gently,  did  she?  So  when  she  told  us  about  this  youth 
wantin'  to  marry  her,  we  got  this  brilliant  idea.  Hughie 
dropped  a  hint  about  his  colossal  prospects,  and  I 
chimed  in  with  a  bit  on  my  own- 


HuGHiE.     Then  we  got  hold  of  the  youth- 


Wallis.  And  having  convinced  him  that  she'd  send 
him  to  the  right — about  if  he  hadn't  £5000  a  year 

Hughie.  He  apparently  posed  as  the  possessor  of 
many  but  imaginary  millions,  sooner  than  get  the  push. 

Budgie.  By  Jove,  it's  ripping!  What  a  sell  for  Kara 
— won't  she  be  sick! 


WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE.  57 

HuGHiE.    I  think  she  is. 

Budgie,  {hubbling  over  with  suppressed  delight,  goes 
quickly  to  door  of  Kara's  room  and  calls)  Kara,  dear, 
I  can't  wait — I  positively  can't  wait — I'll  take  a  han- 
som. 

Kara.     All  right. 

Budgie.  I  must  get  there  before  she  does — it's  one  of 
the  best  stories  I've  ever  had  a  chance  to  tell.  By-by, 
boys— we  shall  all  meet  later,  if  there's  anything  left 
of  you  when  she's  had  her  little  say.     By-by. 

HUGHIE.     "I 

AND  y  By-by. 

Wallis.  j 

HuGHiE.  Sweet  girl! 

Wallis.  Sympathetic  little  soul! 

(Enter  Babette. ) 

Bab.  Madame  comes— en  garde,  Messieurs— she  is 
very  calm. 

(Exit  Babette  at  back.) 

Wallis.  Calm!— Rather  wish  we  hadn't  stayed,  don't 
you? 

HuGHiE.  She  always  was  rather — difficult — when  she 
calm.  Wally,  my  son,  one  toast  before  we  expire — 
Here's  wishing  all  women  where  they  ought  to  be. 

Wallis.     Where's  that? 

HuGHiE.  Well,  I  was  goin'  to  say  the  bottom  of  the 
sea,  but  it  would  be  such  a  doocid  chilly  process  callin' 
on  'em. 

(Kaea  heard  calling  "  Babette.") 

Wallis.     Buck  up!     She's  coming. 

(They  link  arms  and  stand  with  their  backs  to  the  fire. 

Kara  enters.) 

Kara.    Oh,  you're  here? 
Wallis.     Hello,  Kara. 
HuGHiE.     You  look  beautiful,  ma  heller 
Kara.     I  want  just  five  minutes'  chat  with  you  two 
boys. 
Wallis.     Delighted— only  too  delighted! 
HuGHiE.    We're  in  luck,  ain't  we,  old  friend? 


68  WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE. 

Kara.  Do  you  know  what  you  are — yes,  the  pair  of 
you? 

HuGHiE.     Liars? 

Wallis.     Do  tell  us  what  we've  done. 

Kara.  You  know.  You  think  you've  both  been  clever 
— you  will  find  your  joke  a  poor  one  before  I've  done. 
He  has  told  me  everything — he  has  nothing — nothing 
whatever.  Oh,  I  don't  blame  him — the  young  fool  is  in 
love  with  me — lies  were  his  only  chance,  but  if  the 
power  is  ever  given  me  to  repay  you  two,  I'll  flay  you 
for  your  joke — I'll  flay  you!      You  can  remember  that. 

HuGHiE.  Such  remarks  make  general  conversation 
just  a  little  diflBcult — don't  you  think,  ma  belle? 

Wallis.  I — I — er — well,  I  positively  don't  know 
where  to  look,  and  that's  a  fact,  old  son. 

HuGHiE.     Ain't  he  really  got  any  fortune,  Kara? 

Kara.     As  if  you  didn't  know. 

HuGHiE.  Then,  'pon  my  word,  it  just  shows  how  dif- 
ficult it  is  to  believe  in  appearances. 

Wallis.     We  thought  he  was  a  gold  mine,  didn't  we? 

HuGHiE.  I'd  have  backed  my  boots  on  it — after  all 
we'd  heard. 

Kara,  (looking  at  them  with  scorn)  I  sent  for  you 
to  tell  you  what  I  thought  of  you.  I  wanted  to — but 
now  you're  here  and  I  look  at  you,  I  wonder  why  I  can 
be  angry  with  such  things  as  you — you're  not  men,  or  if 
you  are,  then  men  are  such  worms  that  I  don't  wonder 
that  it's  a  glory  to  some  of  us  to  trample  you  under- 
foot. 

HuGHiE.  Not  worms,  ma  belle,  not  worms — don't 
trample  worms.  Call  us  grapes,  ma  belle,  not  worms — 
beautiful,  beautiful  grapes — then  crush  us  under  your 
feet  and  give  us  to  tae  world  in  wine — charming — quite 
charming.  I'm  in  rather  good  form,  ain't  I,  old  son? 
(he  hums  jovially  "  Oh.  call  us  the  fine  Muscatel"  to  the 
tune  of  "They   Call  Me   the  Belle  of  Neiv   York.") 

(Babette  enters  hurriedly.) 


Bab.     Madame  will  pardon  me 

Kara.     What — what — what? 

Bab.     Madame  get  married  in  all  such  a  hurry,  she 
forget  sings. 

Kara.     What's  that? 

Bab.     Zis  letter  from  Mr.  Carewe. 

HUGHIE.      ') 

AND        >  Carewe!! 
Wallis.    j 


WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE.  59 

(Kaba  is  struggling  angrily  into  pair  of  long  gloves.) 

Kara.     Carewe?      Who  is  he? 

Bab.     Ze  Unknown  Man — ze  lunatic — ze  £1000. 

Kara.     Bah!     Tear  it  up — who  said  I'd  see  him? 

Bab.  Ze  letter  made  Madame  so  laugh.  Madame 
said  "  I  will  see  him,"  and  he  is  coming  to-night.  I  'ad 
forgot.  You  fix  the  appointment.  I  post  ze  letter — but 
den  we  get  married  so  damn  quick — we  forgot  sings. 

Kara.  Send  him  away.  I'm  not  in  the  mood  to  laugh 
at  fools  to-night. 

Bab.  He  is,  of  course,  fool.  But  £1000 — that  not  so 
fool. 

Kara.     Who  wants  his  £1000. 

Bab.     Madame  does. 

Kara.     Quite  right — so  I   do. 

Wallis.     Unknown  man? 

HUGHIE.      £1000. 

Wallis.     Carewe,  too.      What's  up? 

Kara,  {fiercely)  Give  me  the  letter,  (she  snatches 
it  and  reads,  then  laughs)  It's  preposterous!  No  man 
could  be  such  a  fool. 

HuGHiE.     May  we  know? 

Kara.  What's  it  got  to  do  with  you?  (she  reads 
again)  £1000 — what  if  he  should  mean  it — it — what  if 
it  shouldn't  be  a  joke? 

Bab.  I  think  him  no  joke — it  read  like  great  sense  to 
me. 

Kara.     It  would  to  a  fool  like  you.     Shall  I  see  him? 

(A  pause — again  she  looks  at  the  letter.) 

What  time  did  I  say  I'd  see  him? 

Bab.     Just  now — it  is  on  the  strike. 

Kara.  Oh,  is  it?  (a  pause,  then  suddenly)  I  won't 
see  him!  I've  had  enough  worry  for  one  day.  My 
cloak,  Babette.      I'm  going  to  the  ball. 

Bab.     Mais    Madame — ! 

Kara.     My  cloak,  I  say. 

Bab.     Oil,  mon  Dieu,  mon  Dieu — ! 

(She  picks  up  cloak  from  chair;  as  she  puts  it  on  Kara 

she  whispers.) 

£1000  is  a  £1000 — Madame  forgets.      Suppose  he  mean 
it?     Sousand  pounds 

{The  outdoor  bell  rings.). 


60  WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE. 

He  is  yere! 

(A  pause;  they  all  look  at  each  other;  then  suddenly 
Kara  flings  off  Tier  cloak.) 

Kara.    Hang  it  all — I'll  see  him!      Get  out,  you  two! 

HuGHiE.     But,  Kara 

Wallis.     Ma  belle 

Kara.  I'll  settle  our  little  score  later;  for  the  present 
—get  out.  I'm  going  to  talk  over  a  little  business  with 
this  gentleman. 

HuGHiE.  I  wonder  would  your  husband  quite  app- 
rove. ^ 

Kara,  {comes  to  him — he  moves  behind  chair) 
Have  you  forgotten  the  old  saying:  "He  laughs  best 
who  laughs  last?"  You'll  both  of  you  remember  it 
yet.  Good-night.  Stop.  I  know  nothing  of  this  fel- 
low. He  may  be  a  madman  for  all  I  know — wait  there 
you  two.  If  he's  tame,  I  can  manage  him— if  he  isn't, 
you  must — that's  all. 

Wallis.     (aghast)     A  madman! 

HuGHiE.     They  have  the  strength  of  ten  men. 

Kara.  What's  his  name  again?  (looks  at  letter) 
Richard  Carewe — know  him? 

HuGHiE.     Richard  Carewe?      (to  W.)     Do  we? 

Wallis.    Richard  Carewe?     (to  H.)     Do  we? 

(A  pause.) 

HuGHiE.    No,  we  don't.  ■ 
Wallis,    Never  heard  of  him. 

(Kara  talks  to  Babette.) 

Wallis.     (to  Hughie)      The  Imp's  guardian. 

Hughie.     Let's  stay  and  see  the  fun. 

Wallis.     Rather! 

Hughie.     What  makes  you  think  he's  mad? 

Kara.  He  has  practically  written  and  told  me  so. 
Into  that  room,  please — you  needn't  come  out  unless  I 
call  you — into  that  room,  please. 

Hughie.     Charmed,  I'm  sure,  to  be  chucker-out. 

Wallis.  Always  ready  to  die  in  the  cause  of  beauty 
in  distress. 

Kara.     Thank  you. — Into  that  room. 

(They  retire  into  room,  l.) 


WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE.  61 

Kara,     {to  Babette)     Bring  me  the  glass. 

(Babette  brings  her  hand-glass  and  Kara  arranges  her 

hair.) 

All  right. 

(Babette  goes  out,  closing  the  door.  Kara  suddenly 
rises  and  goes  to  door  of  the  room  where  the  two  men 
have  retired,  shaking  her  fist  at  it.) 

You've  tricked  me — you've  tricked  me — but  you  shall  pay 
for  it — you  shall  all  pay  for  it — every  man  Jack  of  you! 

(Babette  now  returns  with  a  card  on  tray.) 

{takes  it  and  reads)  Richard  Carewe — what  have  you 
done   with   him? 

Babette.     He   is   in  ze  dining  room. 

Kara.  Idiot!  If  you'd  only  use  the  little  brains 
you've  got,  Babette,  you  would  realize  that  I  can't  see 
Mr.  Carewe  through  brick  walls  and  a  hall  passage — 
bring  him  here. 

Babette.     Oui,  Madame. 

Kara,     {re-reading    letter)      £1000,    and    he    doesn't 

wish  to  see  me — doesn't  wish  to  talk  to  me 

It's  the  most  extraordinary  proposition;  I  wonder  what's 
his  game? 

Babette.     {announces)      Mr.  Richard  Carewe. 

(Dick  enters.      Kara  rises  and  meets  him — there  is  a 

slight  pause.) 

Kara.     How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Carewe? 
DicKN.     How  do  you  do? 

{Another  pause.) 

Kara.  I— I—  {laughs)  It's  a  little  awkward  .isn't 
it?     Won't  you  sit  down? 

Dick,     {sloivly)      You  got  my  letter? 

Kara.  Oh,  yes,  I  got  your  letter.  Do  you  know,  I 
pictured  you  quite  a  different  sort  of  man.  I  thought 
you  must  be  a  very  old  man.     {pause)     Are  you  sane? 

Dick.     Perfectly. 

Kara.     Your  proposition  is — odd — isn't  it? 

Dick.    I  suppose  it  is. 


62  WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE. 

Kara.  I  beg  your  pardon — would  you  like  a  whiskey 
and  soda? 

Dick.     No,  thank  you. 

Kara,  {taking  up  letter)  Here's  your  letter.  Come 
now — it's  a  joke,  isn't  it? 

Dick.     No. 

Dick.     No. 

Kara.    You  really  mean  it? 

Dick.     Absolutely. 

Kara,  {slowly,  looking  at  letter)  You  will  give  me 
£1000  if  I  will  make  my  friends  believe  that  you  are 
— a — friend  of  mine? 

Dick.     Yes. 

Kara,  {referring  to  letter)  For  a  month,  you  desire 
that  our  names  shall  be  linked  together — dear  me,  how 
comic  it  seems!  And  during  that  time  you  do  not 
wish  to  speak  to  me — nor  even  to  see  me? 

(Dick  botvs  his  head.) 

You  must  be  quite  mad,  you  know? 

Dick.     Do  you  accept  my  offer? 

Kara.  Well,  one  can  hardly  accept  £1000  without 
seriously  thinking  it  over,  can  one?  What  does  it  en- 
tail? 

Dick.     Nothing  but  what  is  expressed   in  the  letter. 

Kara.  It  seems  just  a  little  too  good  to  be  true, 
doesn't  it?  You  don't  happen  to  have  brought  the 
money  with  you,  do  you? 

Dick.     Yes — I  told  you  in  my  letter  that  I  would. 

Kara,  {rising  in  amazement)  Then  it's  real — it's 
not  a  joke? 

Dick.     Why  should  I  joke? 

aeARA.  Well,  upon  my  word —  {she  stares  at  him) 
Oh,  I  think  I  see  the  game.  You  want  to  waken  my 
curiosity — to  arouse  my  interest  in  you? 

Dick.     No. 

Kara.  Oh,  yes,  you  do.  Well,  it's  an  expensive  way, 
but  I'm  not  sure  that  it's  a  bad  one.  {she  laughs) 
Come  now — I  challenge  you — you  won't  give  me  your 
word  of  honour  that  you  will  never  seek  to  improve  upon 
the  conditions  of  your  offer?  That  you'll  never  want 
to  change  your  mind  about  not  seeing  me? 

Dick.     I  give  you  my  word  of  honour  now. 

Kara.  Well,  you're  quite  the  oddest  person  I  have 
ever  come  across.  Let  me  see  the  money — convince  me 
it  isn't  a  dream. 

Dick,     {taking  out  letter)      The  money  is  here. 


WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE.  63 

Kara.  It's  not  a  cheque,  is  it? 

Dick.  No,  two  bank  notes. 

Kara.  By  Jove — you  do  mean  business. 

Dick.  Understand,  from  the  time  you  take  this  our 

compact  begins. 

Kara.  Quite  so — and  it  holds  good  for  one  month. 

Dick.  Yes. 

Kara.  You  know  you've  no  earthly  security  that  I 
shall  earn  this  money. 

Dick.  Oh,  yes,  I  have. 

Kara.  What? 

Dick.  Your  sense  of  honour. 

Kara.  Is  that  meant  for  a  joke? 

Dick.  No. 

(A  pause.) 

Kara.     You're  a  most  extraordinary  person. 

Dick.     Is  it  to  be  a  bargain? 

Kara.     Yes.     (she  holds  out  her  hand  for  the  notes) 

Dick,  {gives  them  to  her)  Thank  you.  I — I  can 
go  now — we  have  met  for  the  first  and  the  last  time. 
Good-bye. 

(A  pause.) 

I  must  ask  you  to  forgive  me  for — for  this  insult. 

Kara.  I  like  it,  believe  me.  It's  one  of  the  pleas- 
antest  insults  I've  ever  experienced. 

Dick.     But — but  there  is  so  much  at  stake. 

Kara.     What  do  you  mean? 

Dick.     I — I   cannot  tell  you. 

Kara.  It  really  doesn't  matter — the  money  speaks — 
and  between  you  and  me  and  the  post,  I  wanted  it 
rather  badly.      Good-bye,   Protector-of-the-Poor. 

Dick.     Good-bye. 

(The  bell  rings.) 


Dick,     (turns  and  says  hesitatingly)      Some  one 

Kara.     Well?      Oh,  you  don't  want  to  be  seen  here, 

don't  you?      Is  that  it?      You  do  good  by  stealth  and 

blush  to  be  caught  on  the  stairs! 

(Babette   is   heard   to  open   the   door  and  exclaim  in 

surprise.) 

Bab.     Monsieur! 


64  WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY- ONE. 

(A  man's  voice  is  heard.) 

HiBSCH.     Back  again!     Is  she  in? 

Kara,  (starts  up)  Hirsch!  Jim!  Back  again! 
Back  again!  Quick — quick!  do  you  mind? — go  in  there. 
I — I — this  gentleman — I'd  rather  he  didn't  see  you. 
Quick — just  for  a  minute — do  you  mind. 

(Dick  bows  and  goes  into  the  other  room,  r.) 

Kara.  Jim! — why  has  he  come  back?  Why  has  he 
come  back? 

{The  door  opens  and  Hirsh  enters.  He  is  a  heavily- 
built,  powerful-looking  man  of  Jewish  extraction.  She 
stands  rigid — he  comes  slowly  down — a  silence.) 

Hirsch.     Well? 

Kara.     How  dare  you  come  back? 

Hirsch.  That's  foolish — you  knew  I'd  come  sooner 
or  later,  didn't  you? 

Kara.     I — I 

Hirsch.    Kara,      (he  holds  out  his  arms) 

Kara.     No,   no! 

Hirsch.     What  do  you  mean? 

Kara,  You  must  go — you  must  go — we — we — never 
again!  (fiercely)  It's  over — I  told  you!  (she'stamps) 
I  told  you  once  and  for  all,  it's  over.    Never  again! 

Hirsch.  Wrong — always  again — always  and  always 
— and  you  know  it. 

Kara.     Oh,  why  have  you  come  back? 

Hirsch.  You  left  me  eight  months  ago  because  luck 
turned  against  me. 

Kara.  I  left  you  because  you  were  sold  up.  I'm  not 
good  at  sleeping  on  bare  boards. 

Hirsch.  Luck  has  turned  again — you  must  come 
back. 

Kara.     Must! 

Hirsch.  Must!  You  know  me — when  I  say  a  thing 
I  mean  it.     We  will  go  South  to-morrow. 

Kara.     Not  to-morrow. 

Hirsch.     When  will  you  be  ready? 

Kara,  (taking  up  letter,  glancing  at  it,  then  slowly 
tearing  it  up)      I  have  just  made  a  contract. 

Hirsch.     For  how  long? 

Kara.     One  month  from  to-day. 

Hirsch.     It  is  too  long — break  it. 


WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE.  65 

Kara.  No — curiously  enough,  it's  a  contract  I  cannot 
break. 

HiRSCH.     Strange  contract. 

Kara.     It  is. 

HiRSCH.     What  prevents  you  breaking  it? 

Kara.     (witJi  a  laugh)     My  sense  of  honour. 

HiRSCH.     Rubbish! 

Kara.  I  thought  that  would  amuse  you — it  amuses 
me  rather. 

HiRSCH.     Break  it. 

Kara.     You  must  be  patient. 

HiRSCH.  I  have  been  patient  for  eight  months.  I 
have  stifled  every  thought — I  have  shut  myself  up  with 
my  dream  of  you,  and  compelled  the  luck  to  turn.  It 
has  turned.  We  are  £14,000  to  the  good.  When  that  is 
gone,  I  will  be  patient  again— for  the  present,  we  will 
go  South  to-morrow. 

Kara.     I  have  said  no. 

HiRSCH.  Look  at  me.— It  isn't  wise  to  play  the  fool 
with  me. 

Kara.     You  must  wait  a  month. 

HiRSCH.     I  will  wait  until,  to-morrow. 

Kara.     Don't  be  foolish — you  bore  me. 

HiRSCH.    It's  no  contract — it's  a  man. 

(Enter  Imp.) 

Kara.    What  if  it  is— that's  my  affair! 

HiRSCH.     You  dare! 

Kara.  My  dear  Jimmy,  you're  not  the  only  man  in 
the  world,  you  know. 

HiRSCH.     Who  is  he? 

Kara.     You  wouldn't  know  him. 

HiRSCH.     Who  is  he? 

Kara.  If  you  really  wish  to  know,  his  name  is  Rich- 
ard Carewe.      {she  calls)      Mr.  Carewe. 

HiRSCH.  {starting  forivard  fiercely)  He's  there!  — 
you  love  him. 

(Dick  enters.) 

Kara,     {with  a  defiant  laugh)    What  if  I  do? 
HiRSCH.     {throwing  over  the  table)     You  devil! 
Kara.     Help  me!      {she  backs  to  the  sideboard) 

(HiRSCH  springs  towards  her  with  uplifted  hand;  simul- 
taneously the  Imp  rushes  doivn  to  stop  him.  Then 
Dick  by  a  quick  movement,  intercepts  and  seizes  the 
boy. 

5 


66  WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE. 

Imp.     Keep  back! 

Dick,     {liolding  Mm)     Go  home.    This  is  my  quarrel, 

Kara  moves  down  r. 

You  heard  what  she  said.     She's  mine. 

Imp.  (facing  Mm  in  a  blaze  of  anger)  Liar!  She's 
my  wife! 

(There  is  a  long  silence.    Hughie,  Wallis  and  Babette 
have  entered.     Dick  turns  slowly  to  Kara. 

Dick.     Is  this  true? 
Kara.     Yes. 

Imp.  (in  a  voice  shaken  by  pardon,  and  still  facing 
Dick)     Tell  them  you  have  lied. 

Dick,      (very  sloivly)     I've  lied — I  beg  your  pardon. 

(Another  long,  tense  silence,   broken  by  a  light  laugh 

from  Kara.) 

Imp.     (turns  to  her,  imploringly)    Kara! 

Kara,  (coldly)  Have  you  forgotten  what  I  said  to 
you  to-day? 

(There  is  a  pause,  and,  as  the  Imp  sinks  back  heart- 
broken upon  the  sofa,  she  flings  back  her  head  haught- 
ily and  sweeps  to  the  door,  saying  loudly.) 

Kara.  My  cloak,  Babette.  Show  these  gentlemen  out. 
Jimmy,  take  me  to  my  carriage.    I  will  explain. 

(HiRSCH  laughs,  and  she  stveeps  out  of  the  room  on  his 
arm.    The  hall  door  shuts  with  a  bang.) 

Dick,  (holding  out  his  arms,  pleadingly)  My  boy, 
my  boy! 

Imp.  (facing  him,  says  slowly  and  quietly)  Never 
again — you've  killed  it! 

(He  turns  from  him  and  goes  out  of  the  house.  Dick 
stands  for  a  moment,  motionless,  heart-broken;  then 
he  repeats  in  a  whisper,  mechancially.) 

Dick.     You've  killed  it!      Why,  since  he  was  so  high, 

I've Never  again — he  doesn't  mean  it — he — he  can't 

mean  it. 


WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE.  67 

Bab.  {comes  to  him  with  his  hat  and  cloak)  For 
Monsieur. 

Dick,  (looks  at  her  dazed,  then  realizes)  Yes — I 
forgot — Oh,  yes.  He  didn't  mean  it.  I — I  will  go  after 
him — he  didn't  mean  it — he  didn't  mean  it! 

{He  goes  sloivly  out  after  the  hoy.    Wallis  and  Hughie 
turn  to  each  other  and  lift  their  glasses  meaningly.) 

Hughie.    Chin-chin,  old  son!      Quite  a  busy  evening! 

CURTAIN. 


08  WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE. 


ACT    IV. 

Time. — The  same  night — about  an  hour  later. 

ScEXE. — Dick's  room  in  the  Clement's  Inn.  Mrs.  Eric- 
son  dozing  in  an  easy  chair — Phyllis  ivorking  by  her 
side.  After  a  slight  pause,  she  rises  and  goes  to  the 
window — draws  the  curtains  a  little  and  looks  out. 

Mrs.  E.  sits  up  ivith  a  start)  I  must  have  dozed, 
it  must  be  very  late. 

Phyll.     Very  late. 

Mrs.  E.     Oh,  my  dear — we  can't  sit  up  any  more. 

Phyll.  We  must — he  can't  be  much  longer  now,  at 
least — you  needn't,  mother,  dear — I  must. 

Mrs.  E.  Well,  anyhow  if  I  do  sit  up,  I'll  do  it  lying 
down  in  my  room,  this  low  chair  gives  me  cricks  in  my 
neck. 

Phyll.     It'll  be  an  awful  blow  to  him. 

Mrs.  E.  Yes,  dear,  I'm  afraid  it  will.  What  it  is 
about  young  men  that  makes  them  go  off  and  get  mar- 
ried like  that,  I  don't  know.  Are  you  going  to  stay 
here,  or  are  you  coming  with  me? 

Phyll.     I'll  stay  here. 

Mrs.  E.  I  couldn't  keep  my  eyes  open  sitting  up, 
perhaps  it'll  be  better  lying  down.  Oh,  do  lie  down,  too, 
dear,  you  look  worn  out. 

Phyll.  I'm  all  right.  We  must  be  very  kind  to  him 
when  he  comes,  mother. 

Mrs.  E.     Yes,  we  will  be — if  I  can  keep  awake. 

(Mrs.  Eeicson  goes  sleepily  to  her  room — leaving  Phyl- 
lis at  the  window.) 

Phyll.     Oh,  what  can  it  be  that  keeps  him! 
(Footsteps  heard  outsiie — then  the  electric  bell  rings.) 
Here  they  are!       (she  runs  to  hall  door  and  opens  it) 

(SiE  Horace,  the  Doctor  and  Col.  Graeme  come  in.) 


WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE.  69 

Where's  Dick? 

Waddles.     Isn't  he  here? 

Col.     We  thought  he  was  here. 

Phyll.     Hasn't  he  been  with  you? 

Col.     Yes! 

Phyll.  (looking  from  one  to  the  other — observing 
their  emharrassment)      What's  happened? 

(They  don't  answer.) 

He  had  a  letter  from  that  woman  this  afternoon.  I 
recognized  the  writing  on  the  envelope.  Are  they  mar- 
ried? 

CoL.     Who? 

F  HYLL.     The  Imp  and  she. 

(The  three  look  greatly  surprised.) 

Col.     You  know — how  did  you  know? 

PiiYLL.  I  knew  days  ago.  The  Imp  told  me — and — 
and — I  got  this  letter  this  afternoon,  saying  that  by  the 
time  I  received  it  he'd  be  a  married  man. 

Waddles.     Oh,  why  didn't  you  tell  Dick? 

Phyll.  I'd  promised  not  to.  He  wanted  to  tell  Dick 
himself.  Besides,  Dick  must  have  known,  because  he 
got  a  note  from  the  Imp's  wife  this  afternoon. 

CoL.  But  unfortunately  the  note  did  not  say  a  word 
about  the  marriage. 

Phyll.  (amazed)  Didn't  say — I  don't  understand 
that.  Would  you  mind  telling  me  what's  happened? 
I'm  quite  old  enough  to  be  told  things.  I'm  not  break- 
ing my  heart  for  the  Imp.  I  gave  him  his  freedom  very 
willingly.  Tell  me  —  Dick  is  suffering,  I  know  that. 
He's  keeping  everything  from  me.  I  want  to  help  him 
— I  must  help  him — tell  me  what's  happened. 

CoL.     I  think  we'd  better. 

Doctor.  Ah,  shure — I'm  glad  you're  not  breakin' 
your  heart  for  the  boy. 

Phyll.     So  am  I.     Tell  me  about  Dick,  please. 

CoL.     Well— this  lady  that  the  Imp  has  married 

Doctor.     Wasn't  a  desirable  party  at  all — at  all. 

Col.  And  so  Dick  went  to-night  by  appointment  to 
— to  buy  her  off. 

Phyll.     Too  late? 

Waddles.     Too   late. 

Doctor.     That's  just  the  devil  of  it. 

Col.     And — and — the  Imp  and  Dick  have — well — they 


70  WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE. 

haven't  exactly  quarreled — but  the  boy  knows  now  that 
his  marriage  has  been  a  mistake. 

Phyll.     Already? 

Col.  I  think  the  lady  has  transferred  her  affections 
to  some  one  else. 

Phyll.     But  she  only  got  married  to-day. 

Waddles.     Some  ladies  are  a  little  fickle,  Phyllis  dear. 

Phyll.     Something  awful  must  have  happened. 

The  three  men  nod.) 

{in  a  tchisper)      What? 

CoL.     We  don't  know — yet. 

Phyll.     Oh,  Dick — poor  Dick! 

Waddles.  If  you'd  seen  him  walk  out  of  that  place 
to-night,  you'd  have  said  poor  Dick,  indeed. 

Col.  You  see  Dick,  knowing  nothing  of  the  marriage, 
proved  to  the  boy — that  the  woman  wasn't  fit  to  be  any 
man's  wife. 

Doctor.    And  all  the  time  the  two  were  married. 

(There  is  a  long,  disconsolate  pause.) 

Phyll.  Where  is  he  now — somewhere  out  there  alone 
with  it  all.  Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear!  (she  goes  to  the  win- 
dow and  leaning  against  the  curtains  she  has  one  quiet 
little  sob  all  to  herself) 

(The  three  men  look  at  each  other — then  the  Doctob 
says  in  a  whisper.) 

Doctor.     It's  Dick  she  loves,  after  all. 

(The  other  tivo  look  at  his  incredulously  for  a  moment, 
then,  as  the  idea  takes  root — the  Col.  gives  a  low 
whistle.) 

Waddles,  (gasps)  You're  right,  you're  right.  Oh, 
what  fools  we've  been! 

Doctor.  We've  found  the  silver  lining,  boys,  there'll 
be  a  new  member  in  the  firm. 

CoL.     But,  does  Dick 

Doctor,  (breaking  in  with  a  smile)  Av  course  he 
does — shure,  don't  we  all? 

(The  three  men  draw  a  long  breath  and  turn  and  look 
gently  at  the  girl — she  is  still  standing  staring  out 
into  the  night  waiting  for  Dick  to  come.) 


WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE.  71 

(tenderly)     When  he  comes  in,  ye'll  try  and  comfort 
him — won't  you,  my  dear? 

Phyll.     Oh,  if  only  I  could. 

Sir  H.     He'll  be  very  lonely,  Phyl. 

Doctor.  Ah,  if  there  was  only  some  sweet  woman 
who  loved  him — who  could  take  his  tired  head  upon 
her  heart  and  tell  him  not  to  grieve — that  'ud  do  him 
good,  I'm  thinkin'. 

Waddles,     (abruptly)     Is  your  mother  up? 

Doctor,  (rounds  on  him)  Ah,  shure — what's  the 
good  of  that? 

Waddles.  My  gracious,  I  didn't  mean  that.  I  was 
only  thinking. 

Phyll.  (coming  away  from  the  window  wearily) 
It's  very  late,  if  you'd  like  anything  to  eat  and  drink — 
it's  all  on  the  table  in  the  dining  room. 

Waddles.     That's  what  I  meant,  man,  when  I  said 

Phyll.  (suddenly  listening)  Hush!  (a  pause) 
He's  coming. 

(She  goes  up  to  door  and  listens.) 

Doctor.  What  did  I  tell  you!  She  knows  his  step. 
■Boys!  I'm  thinkin'  this  blow  is  the  softest  thing  Mas- 
ther  Dick  has  ever  sthruck. 

Phyll.     Shall — shall  we  go  into  the  dining  room? 

Doctor,     (a  little  astonished)      For  why? 

Phyll.  Perhaps  he — he  might  like  to  be  alone  to- 
night— just  to-night. 

Waddles.  Well,  I  think  p'raps  four  of  us  is  too  many, 
but — maybe — one. 

Doctor. 

AND 

Colonel. 

Yes,  yes! 

(They  move  hurriedly  out.) 

Waddles,     (to  Phyllis)      You  stay! 

(He  goes  out  after  the  other  two.  The  outer  door  is 
opened  with  a  latch-key  and  Dick  comes  in  wearily — 
he  passes  across  the  hall  and  into  his  own  room. 
Throws  his  hat  and  coat  on  to  a  chair  and  stands  for 
a  moment  lost  in  his  thoughts.  He  doesn't  see  Phyl- 
lis, who  is  in  an  alcove  of  the  icindoiv.  After  a  bit, 
he  goes  to  the  desk,  unlocks  it,  takes  out  the  letter — • 


72  WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE. 

and  reads  it  through,  then  holding  it  tenderly,  as  if 
it  were  a  living  thing — he  whispers.) 

Dick.     I  did  my  best,  old  man,  I  did  my  best. 

(Phyllis  comes  in  quietly — closing  the  door  after  her. 
She  steals  across  to  him  and  puts  her  hand  tenderly 
on  his  shoulder.) 

Aren't  you  in  bed? 

Phyll.     No,   dear. 

Dick.     You  should  be  child,  it's  late. 

Phyll.  Is  it?  {then,  with  great  tenderness,  she 
slips  her  hand  into  his)  Oh,  Dick,  dear,  you  look  so 
tired. 

Dick.     Do  I? 

Phyll.  You're  not  angry  because  I  waited  up?  I 
knew  you'd  be  tired,  and  I — I  thought  you  might  be 
lonely.  So — so — I  wanted  to  be  with  you,  if  you'd  let 
me.  I  know  about  it  all,  Dick — the  marriage — and — 
the  rest. 

Dick.     You  know? 

Phyll.     The  Trinity  told  me. 

Dick,  (a  great  pity  comes  over  him  for  herq  I  did 
it  for  the  best,  dear.      I'm  very  sorry. 

Phyll.  Don't  be  sorry  for  me,  Dick.  He  told  me 
days  ago  about  her,  and  I  was  glad  he  didn't  love  me — 
because — I  didn't  love  him  either. 

Dick.     You  didn't? 

Phyll.     No!      Where  is  he? 

Dick.  I  don't  know.  {then,  with  a  long,  indrawn 
sob,  he  sinks  into  the  chair  by  the  table  and  buries  his 
head  on  his  hands)      Ih,  my  boy — my  boy! 

Phyll.     Oh,  don't,  Dick,  don't. 

Dick.     I  tried  my  best  to  save  him,  I  did,  indeed. 

Phyll.     I  know  you  did,  he  knows  you  did. 

Dick.  He  doesn't,  he  hates  me — how  can  he  help  it, 
he  hates  me — oh,  my  boy,  my  boy! 

Phyll.     Dick! 

Dick,  {rising  and  moving  from  her)  Don't,  dear, 
please  don't.  Leave  me  alone,  I — I'd  sooner  be  alone, 
just  now. 

{And  Phyllis,  understanding,  goes  quietly  away.  He 
has  moved  toioards  the  mantelpiece  and  botved  his 
head,  there  is  a  long  silence,  he  stands  there  alone 
in  his  grief.) 


WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE.  73 

Be  father — mother — all  to  him — and  this  is  what  I've 
done! 

{The  hall  door  is  heard  to  open  and  shut  again  softly, 
Dick  is  heedless  of  it,  then  the  door  of  his  room  opens 
and  the  Imp  comes  in.  Dick,  at  the  sound,  looks  up 
and  sees  him.      There  is  a  pause.) 

Dick,     (gently)      You  have  come  back? 

Imp.     (with  a  laugh)      Are  you  surprised? 

Dick.     Yes. 

Imp.  (bitterly)  When  a  man  arranges  to  lie  away 
a  woman's  reputation  to  her  husband,  he  shouldn't  be 
surprised  if  the  husband  has  a  word  to  say  on  the  sub- 
ject. 

(Dick  looks  at  him.,  then  says  slowly.) 

Dick.  I  knew  nothing  of  the  marriage.  What  I  did, 
I  did  for  your  sake. 

Imp.     Thank  you  very  much. 

Dick.  I  don't  think  you  were  wise  to  come  here  to- 
night— we — we  can't  see  things  clearly  yet.  You'd  bet- 
ter go;  come  back  to-morrow,  perhaps  then  you  will  be 
able  to  understand. 

Imp.  Oh,  I  quite  understand  now.  I've  learnt  my 
lesson  pretty  thoroughly,  thanks  to  you  all.  A  woman, 
even,  a  man's  wife,  is  a  thing  to  be  bought  and  sold. 
If  you've  taught  me  nothing  else,  Dick,  you've  taught 
me  that. 

Dick.  I've  never  taught  you  anything  that  wasn't 
true.     No  woman  worthy  of  the  name  is  to  be  bought. 

Ifflp.  Ah,  I  know  'em  now — you  don't.  Who  was  the 
chap  who  said  every  woman  was  at  heart  a  wrong  'un? 
He  knew  life.  It's  only  the  accident  of  birth  and  cir- 
cumstances.    Why,  I  daresay  Phyllis 

Dick,  (sternly)  Stop  there!  (then  very  quietly) 
You'd  better  go,  we  are  neither  of  us  in  a  fit  state  to 
talk  this  matter  over.  We'd  say  what  we  didn't  mean, 
and — and  I  might  get  angry  with  you.  (a  pause)  I 
have  asked  your  pardon  for  my  share  in  this;  at  the 
same  time,  I  must  ask  you  to  remember  that  I  did  what 
I  thought  was  right. 

Imp.     Our  views  of  right  and  wrong  differ. 

Dick,  (gently)  They  may  to-night.  I'm  sure  they 
won't  to-morrow.      (he  goes  to  the  door  and  opens  it) 

Imp.  (hotly)  I'm  not  going  yet.  There's  a  good 
deal  I've  got  to  say  to  you. 


74  WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE. 

Dick.  And  a  good  deal  I've  got  to  say  to  you,  but  not 
to-night. 

Imp.      (raising  his  voice)      I  will 

Dick.     Hush!      I  said  not  to-night. 

Imp.  (stamping)  I  will  know  the  truth  of  this 
damned  conspiracy  against  me. 

Dick.     Stop! 

Imp.  It  has  been  a  conspiracy,  and  you  know  it. 
What  were  you  all  at  the  club  for? 

Dick,     (quietly)      I  shall  expect  you  in  the  morning. 

Imp.  (getting  beyond  himself,  faces  Dick  in  a  rage) 
Tell  me  now. 

Dick.     I  shall  expect  you  in  the  morning. 

Imp.     (lifting  his  hand  to  strike)      You — you 

(Dick  seizes  his  arm  and  holds  him  for  an  instant  as 
in  a  vice,  then  lets  him  go,  and  says  gently.) 

Dick.     That  would  have  been  a  pity,  wouldn't  it? 

(A  long  pause,  then  he  takes  the  letter.) 

This  is  your  father's  letter  to  me,  written  when  he  lay 
dying,  and  you  were  a  little  child;  in  it  he  asks  me  to 
try  and  take  his  place.  I  have  tried — you  are  of  age 
now — you  need  me  no  longer.  (and  he  tears  the  letter 
into  two  pieces) 

(The  Imp  is  sitting  upon  the  sofa,  his  head  buried  in 
his  hands.     A  knock  is  heard  at  the  outside  door.) 

Who's  that? 

(Dick  goes  and  opens  the  door.     A  Cabman  is  seen  out- 
side.) 

Cabman,     (enquiringly)      Richard  Carewe? 
Dick.     Yes. 

Cabman.  Lady  told  me  to  deliver  this  note,  most 
spechul. 

(Dick  takes  it  and  fumbles  in  his  pockets  for  a  coin, 
hasn't  got  one.      He  turns  to  the  Imp.) 

Dick.     Got  a  couple  of  shillings? 
Imp.     Yes. 

(He  hands  Dick  the  coins,  tmho,  in  his  turn,  hands  them, 


WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE.  75 

to  the  Cabman,  who  disappears,  saying  "  Thank  ye, 
sir."  Dick  closes  the  door  and  comes  down  to  fire- 
place, opening  the  letter  as  he  comes.  He  reads  a  lit- 
tle, then  looks  up  at  the  Imp,  who  rises  quickly,  guess- 
ing intuitively.) 

Imp.     It's  from  her. 

Dick.     Yes. 

Imp.  You  can  read  it  out.  I'm  not  afraid — she  can't 
write  harder  things  than  slie  said. 

Dick.  "  I  have  learnt  from  Mr.  Hirsch  that  you  are 
the  young  man's  guardian,  so  I  see  now  the  reason  of 
our  compact.  I  am  sorry  you  were  too  late,  for  his,  for 
my  own,  and  for  your  sal^e.  However,  don't  worry, 
your  young  friend  will  have  no  difficulty  in  obtaining 
his  freedom.  I  return  your  cheque  for  two  reasons; 
one  is,  I'm  sure  Hirsch  wouldn't  approve  of  my  receiving 
such  a  present  even  from  my  husband's  guardian,  the 
other  is  I  don't  want  you  to  think  you  are  the  only  fool 
in  the  world.  I'll  send  you  some  roses  from  Monte 
Carlo." 

{A  pause,  he  looks  at  the  Imp,  loho  laughs  and  goes  up 
into  the  windoio,  xohere  he  stands  staring  into  the 
darkness.     Then  he  speaks  without  turning.) 

Imp.  When  I  told  her  that  I  should  kill  him,  she 
laughed  and  said,  "  Very  well;  but  when  you  are  hanged, 
there'll  be  nobody  left  to  deal  with  his  successors  ";  that 
seemed  logical,  so  I  came  away  and  left  him  to  eat  his 
supper. 

Dick,     (amazed)     You  saw  them? 

Imp.     (nods)      Just  left  'em— they're  together  now. 

Dick,     (going  quickly  to  him)     Oh,  my  poor  old  boy. 

Imp.  I — I  can't  help  laughing.  My  position  is  so 
very  ridiculous,      (he  rises  icearily)     I — I'll  go  now. 

Dick.     Where  are  you  staying? 

Imp.     Metropole.     Good-night. 

Dick.     Good-night. 

(The  Imp  goes  slowly  to  the  door,  then  turns  to  Dick 
and  says  huskily.) 

Imp.     You — you  might  ask  me  to  stay  here. 
Dick,     (gladly)      Would  you? 

Imp.     Oh,    Dick!       (and   he   breaks   down  utterly   as 
Dick,  deeply  moved,  catches  Mm  in  his  arms) 
Dick,     (half   laughing,   half  sobbing)      Come,   come, 


Y6  WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE. 

it'll  all  dry  straight,  we  will  work  it  through  together, 
old  man,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  as  we  used  to  be. 

Imp.  All  that  I've  said,  just  now,  I  didn't  mean  it,  I 
didn't,  indeed.  I've  been  a  brute  to  you,  Dick,  but  I 
didn't  mean  to  be. 

Dick.  I  know,  old  man — bless  you,  I  know.  You 
had  to  work  it  off  on  somebody,  and  I  was  nearest. 

Imp.  (passionately)  Dick — Dick!  I'd  like  to  get 
out  of  this  country,  just  a  bit.  I  must,  I  must — can't 
I  go?  There's  always  a  war  somewhere — I'd  like  to 
fight. 

Dick.  Why  not?  Get  along  out  and  show  'em  you're 
your  father's  boy,  our  boy.  Then  come  back  all  over 
Victoria  crosses  and  things,  and — and  the  Trinity  shall 
entertain  you  at  a  banquet.  That's  right,  boy,  buck  up. 
The  world's  a  damned  hard  fight,  you've  had  the  first 
knock,  a  stiff  'un,  right  under  the  jaw,  but  you're  up 
again,  old  son,  and  the  fight  is  yours  to  win,  if  you  only 
choose. 

Imp.    I  choose. 

{And  Dick  wrings  his  outstretched  hand.) 

Dick,  (cheerily)  Good  man!  Get  along  to  bed,  old 
son,  you're  dog  tired,  we'll  think  of  the  future  in  the 
morning 

(And!  the  Imp  goes  out.) 

Dick.  He's  true  grit,  every  inch  of  him.  (then  sud- 
denly) Here,  here,  I  tore  up  his  father's  letter.  I  was 
a  fool,  (he  picks  up  one  piece)  It's  all  right,  Charlie, 
old  man,  I'll  be  able  to  face  you  yet.  (he  picks  up  the 
other  piece)  Come  here.  Come  here!  Get  back  into 
your  place — I've  been  a  fool! 

(And  he  puts  the  torn  pieces  back  into  his  drawer  as 
Phyllis  comes  in.) 

Phyll.  (comes  in  quickly)  He's  back.  I  heard  him 
go  into  his  room. 

Dick.     Yes,    he's   back. 

Phyll.     Poor  old  Imp. 

Dick.  Thank  goodness  he's  got  the  pluck  to  take  it 
like  this.  God  knows  it  may  be  for  the  best  after  all. 
(then  he  turns  and  looks  at  Phyllis)  Hullo!  why — 
why — why — I  can't  have  my  little  girl  looking  like  this 


WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE.  77 

— black  shadows  under  her  eyes,  this  won't  do — you're 
the  tired  one  now. 

Phyll.  (smiling  sadly)  No,  I'm  not.  I'm  only 
tired  for  you.  I  know  how  you  must  feel  about  all  this, 
and  somehow  I  don't  seem  to  be  able  to  help  you  a  bit. 

Dick,  {stroking  her  hair  softly)  Yes,  you  do,  dear, 
you  help  me  all  the  time. 

Phyll.  (moving  a  little  from  him)  Oh,  I  wish  I 
could  think  I  did.  But  (cheerfully)  it's  all  right.  The 
Imp's  come  back.  And  the  Trinity  is  in  the  dining 
room  having  whiskies  and  sodas,  so  as  you've  got  all 
you  want,  you'd  like  to  go  to  bed. 

Dick.     No,  I  shouldn't,  but  it's  getting  very  late. 

(Phyllis  turns  on  her  heel  and  goes  to  the  door.) 

(he  calls  her)      Phyllis,  it — it  was  very  sweet  of  you 
to  wait  up  for  me,  dear.     Good-night. 
Phyll.     Good-night. 

(She  again  goes  to  the  door — again  he  calls  her  softly.) 

Dick.     Phyllis! 

Phyll.     (turning)      What?      (a  pause) 
Dick.     Nothing,    I — I    think   you'd   better   go   to   bed, 
dear. 
Phyll.     You  were  going  to  say  something. 
Dick;.     No,  no 

(She  turns  away — he  stands  watching  her,  then  says 

quickly.) 

You're  quite  sure  you  never —  (he  stops,  there  is  a 
pause — she  looks  at  him  and  then  away) 

Phyll.  I  was  never  in  love  with  him,  if  that's  what 
you  mean. 

Dick.     You  never  were — really?     (gladly) 

Phyll.     Never  was,  really — really. 

Dick,  (after  a  pause)  Ah,  well,  it's  only  postpon- 
ing the  evil  day.  He's  gone — you'll  be  the  next  to  go, 
but  you've  been  fairly  happy  while  you've  been  here, 
haven't  you,  dear? 

Phyll.     I've  been  very  happy,  Dick. 

Dick,     (with  a  gasp)        Iwonder —   (he  stops  again) 

Phy-ll.  (coming  a  little  nearer  to  him)  What  do 
you  wonder? 

Dick,  (hacking  a  little)  Nothing.  You  really  ought 
to  go  to  bed,  dear. 


78  WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE. 

Phyll.     I'm  going. 

Dick.  I  suppose  what  you  said  the  other  day  about 
your  mother — well,  I  suppose  you'll  be  going  altogether 
soon. 

Phyll.  (gravely)  I  don't  think  I  was  quite  just 
about  mother  the  other  day — she  didn't  say  those  things, 
really. 

Dick.     Didn't  she?     Then,  why 

Phyll.  (slowly)  Oh,  because  I  was  in  a  silly  mood 
— you  would  keep  on  saying  things  to  me  about  the  Imp 
and  how  happy  I  ought  to  be,  and  all  that,  and  of  course 
I   wasn't  a  bit  happy.     I'm  much  hapier  now. 

Dick.     Now? 

Phyll.  Well,  because  now  he's  not  going  to  marry 
me,  so  I  needn't  marry  him.     I'm  free  now,  Dick. 

Dick.     Oh,  I  wish  I  was  ten  years  younger. 

Phyll.     I  don't. 

Dick,  (eagerly)  Don't  you?  (he  moves  to  her) 
Oh,  Phyllis! 

(She  meets  his  eye  and  he  hacks  off  again.) 

You  really  ought  to  go  to  bed,  dear,  it's  quite  late. 

Pkyll.     Does  it  matter  for  once? 

Dick,  (gathering  courage)  Phyllis,  I — I — oh,  I'm  a 
fool,  don't  laugh  at  me. 

Phyll.     I  haven't. 

Dick.  I — I — oh,  Phyllis,  I've  never  dared  to  tell  any- 
one.    I've  never  dared  to  tell  myself — much  less  you. 

(A  pause.) 

Phyll.     What,  Dick? 

Dick.  That — that — oh,  my  dear,  it's  striking  two — 
what  would  your  mother  say? 

Phyll.  (very  matter  of  factly)  You're  quite  right, 
Dick,  dear,  it  is  very  late.  Good-night.  The  Trinity 
are  in  the  dining  room,  I'm  keeping  you  from  them. 
Good-night. 

(She  goes  to  door.) 

Dick.    Don't  go  just  yet. 

(She  comes  back.) 

Dick.  I'm  not  usually  such  a  fool — but  somehow  this 
seems  so  fearfully  serious.      I — I — you're  a  young  girl. 


WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE.  Y9 

I'm  forty.  It  isn't  fair,  is  it?  I  mean,  I  daresay,  you 
would  out  of  the  kindness  of  your  heart,  but — but — No, 
I'm  a  fool,  everything's  better  as  it  is.     Good-night,  dear. 

(He  turns  from  her  and  goes  to  the  table — she  stands 
looking  at   him   for  a  moment,   then  says   softly.) 

Phyll.  You  don't  mean  to  say  good-night,  Dick,  like 
that.  Good-night.  [she  comes  to  him  with  her  hands 
outstretched — their  eyes  meet,  the  touch  of  her  hands 
conquers  him) 

Dick.  I  must  tell  you —  (o  long  pause,  and  he  says 
in  a  whisper  almost)      I  love  you! 

Phyll.     (simply)      I  love  you,  too,  Dick. 

Dick.     You  love  me! 

Phyll.  I've  always  loved  you,  but  you  didn't  seem 
to  care. 

Dick,     (dazed)      You  love  me! 

Phyll.     I  love  you. 

(There  is  a  silence,  and  then  he  kisses  her — there  is 
another  silence — then   he   says  with  a   long  sigh.) 

Dick.     I  thought  everything  had  ended.      Everything 
is  just  beginning — You  love  me — say  it  again. 
Phyll.     Need  I? 
Dick.     Yes,  say  it  again. 
Phyll.     I  love  you. 
Dick.    You  love  me. 

(A  long  pause — he  kisses  her — and  whispers.) 

Again! 

Phyll.     Again  and  always,  I  love  you. 

Dick.     Then  what's   the   matter  with  anything? 

Phyll.     Nothing. 

Dick,  (in  a  hushed  whisper)  Nobody  must  ever 
know. 

Phyll.     Why  not? 

Dick.  I  don't  know — but — but — oh,  they  mustn't — 
say  it  again. 

Phyll.     Tell  everybody — are  you  ashamed  of  me? 

Dick.  Ashamed!  Here — hi!  No,  no,  before  they 
come,  say  it  again — just  in  a  whisper.  I  love  you,  of 
it's  the  most  beautiful  thing  I've  ever  heard.  Phyllis, 
Phyllis,  where  have  I  been  hiding  myself  all  these  years? 
you've  opened  out  life  to  me. 

Phyll.     (whispers)     I  love  you. 


80  WHEN  WE  WERE  TWENTY-ONE. 

Dick.    But — but  oh,  I'm  forty,  dear. 

Phyll.     I  love  you. 

Dick.     I'm — I'm  an  old  bachelor. 

Phyll.     I  love  you. 

Dick,  (with  a  cry  of  delight)  Don't  whisper  it, 
shout  it.  We  love  eacvh  other,  and  we're  going  to  be 
married.  Let's  tell  'em,  let's  tell  'em.  Waddles,  Miles, 
Doctor — what  are  they  doing?     How  shall  I  tell  'em? 

Phyll.     It's  very  easy. 

Dick,  (ruefully)  Is  it?  Here,  I've  called  'em,  you 
tell  'em — that's  fair. 

(Waddles,  the  Doctoe,  and  the  Soldier-Man  enter  hur- 
riedly.) 

The  Three.     Old  man 


Dick.  The  Imp's  come  home — and — and  we're  none 
of  us  to  worry,  because  he's  going  to  be  a  man. 

The  Three.     Oh!       {vaguely) 

Dick.  And — and — Phyllis  has  got  something  to  say 
to  you. 

{The   three   men,    with   instant    comprehension,   wheel 
round  to  Phyllis.) 

Colonel,     {eagerly)      Is  it  all  right? 
Phyll.     {smiling)       Yes. 

Colonel.  Oh,  my  dear!  {and  he  takes  her  hands 
and  kisses  her  fervently)      It's  our  right. 

{He  hands  her  to  the  Doctor,  toho  does  the  same  and 
hands  her  to  Waddles,  who  folloics  suit.) 

The  Three.     Good  luck  to  you — it — it — it's  splendid. 
Dick,     {taking  her)     Yes,  isn't  it?      Splendid. 
Omnes.     Kiss  her,  kiss  her! 

Dick.  I'm  not  afraid.  I — I  did  it  all  by  myself  just 
now. 

{He  kisses  her.) 

Waddles.     Thank   goodness,   it   isn't   a  quadrity   any 
longer — it's   a  quantity. 
Omnes.     It  is — it  is! 
Waddles.    With  a  power  to  increase  our  number. 


CURTAIN. 


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